


The Emperor's Gem

by FalinMede



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 89,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalinMede/pseuds/FalinMede
Summary: A sort of sequel to The Lost Dragonborn, so please read first! Falin arrived in Skyrim with one goal in mind. Thwarting an assassination attempt on her grandfather, the Emperor, that no one believes in. But she may well end up side tracked





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please, again, read The Lost Dragonborn before venturing into The Emperor's Gem as some events are based on the canon happenings in The Lost Dragonborn

She could only hope she wasn't too late. Speeding down the gangway, she could hear Thaille, her father's first mate, yelling at her "to get her scrawny hide back on board or else." But the or else that bounced off the walls of her head was a lot scarier than whatever Thaille could do. She slipped a bit on the dock, drawing even more attention from the people on Solitude's dock. She ignored it all as she ran, her auburn braid cracking at the air behind her as she ran, catching the light just enough that it revealed her red highlights. She left the docks behind much faster than she'd thought, poudning up the dirt road and ignoring the glares she received from the lingering carriage driver as she clearly spooked his horse. He'd live, she decided, her feet carrying her to the doors of Solitude. She skidded to a halt at those solidly closed doors, willing them open with her mind as if she could do such a thing. She glanced at the guard, her green eyes anxious.  
"I need to get inside," she implored him.  
"There are proper channels," he informed her.  
"I'm hear to see the Emperor!" she insisted. "It is a matter of life and death!"  
"You merchants," the guard grumbled, clearly dismissing her.   
She ground her teeth but was unable to hold her tongue.  
"The Emperor's life is in danger!"  
Her words came louder than she meant but something in her voice had the guard looking at her differently. He sighed deeply.  
"Go," he said, nodding at the door.  
Relieved, she rushed the door, shoving it open with muscles earned from so many years growing up on a ship. Solitude lacked the luster that accompanied the Imperial City, lacked the population to. All observations she made as her boots clattered over the rough cobblestone. She knew from prior dealings with Solitude its layout and where to go, hurrying up the rise that led past the blacksmith and into the courtyard of the Castle Dour. There! She recognized the uniformed Penitus Oculatus and hurried over, adjusting her gait to that of a brisk walk as she recovered her breath. The younger of the two men turned to her and, despite his duty, gave her a grin.  
"Falin, as I live and breath," he greeted.   
"Gerich," she greeted, pausing before the two.  
The second, a new recruit, or one she'd never met, barely gave her a nod.  
"I need to see the Emperor," Falin announced, standing up straight, throwing her shoulders back.  
It was how her mother stood from time to time when she addressed one of the crew. And now Falin used it in the hopes that it would distract from her lack of height. Gerich glanced at his partner, his hazel eyes a shocking contrast to his dark brown hair. He seemed nervous as he looked back at her.  
"Maybe that's not a good idea," he led with.  
"I have to warn him!" Falin insisted, managing, just barely, to keep her voice at a dull roar.  
Why was no one taking her seriously?  
"The Dark Brotherhood is coming for him!"  
"Falin," Gerich sighed.  
Yet another person who didn't believe her. She'd had enough. Shoving past the two, she shoved the doors open, despite an audible objection from Gerich. He knew who she was and knew that touching her could mean trouble for him. His partner made to grab her and Gerich was there, whispering the secret that few knew about her. She ignored them both, breezing into the Castle. Her eyes landed on the Emperor, where he sat in the throne and she felt a rush of relief. He was alive for now. Her steps brought her closer and she pointedly ignored the watching Commander Maro. She knew of his disapproval of both her and her father. Actually of her whole family. Next to him stood his son and he dropped his gaze as soon as she walked in. Falin did not go far, stopping at the edge of the receiving room, hoping that her presence would summon the Emperor to her side. But he sat on his throne, looking at her, confusion on his face. Almost like he did not know her. Her eyes narrowed a bit.  
"I need to speak with you," she announced.  
"Scat girl," Maro barked as he did with her.   
"I need to speak with you," Falin repeated insistently, ignoring Maro completely.   
"Then speak, merchant," urged the man on the throne.  
And that is when she knew, her eyes narrowing fully. The man before her was not the true Emperor. He was an imposter.   
"You are not the Emperor," she declared.  
Her gaze shot to Maro.  
"Where is he?" she demanded, approaching him instead.  
"He is no concern to you," Maro snarled back.  
"His is my Emperor!" Falin argued.  
Those dark eyes narrowed, staring down at her.   
"Falin, return home," he commanded, his voice low and even.  
He was suppressing his temper and the effort it cost him was near admirable.  
"Please," Falin uttered.  
Maro's face twisted and he nodded at the guards on either side of the room.  
"Get her out of here!"  
Maro's son stepped forward before she could be grabbed by anyone else, lifting her with ease.  
"I'll take care of her father," he assured the man, carrying her out despite her struggles.   
"Gaius!" Falin snapped, beating at him.  
He didn't seem to feel her fists, carrying her out of the Castle Dour and into the courtyard, the doors slamming shut behind him.  
"No!" Falin screeched, thrashing.   
Even still, Gaius carried her away.  
"Falin," he said after a few moments and a few steps.   
They were now safely tucked away, she realized, by the temple. And Gaius was lowering her to her feet. She waited, patiently, and as soon as she felt solid ground beneath her, she drew her leg back, kicking Gaius in the crotch. He only just barely managed to divert her attack, the rough sole of her boot scraping his toned leg. That he'd been expecting it spoke of how well he knew her.  
"Falin, you can't just storm in here to speak to the Emperor when you please," he lectured.  
"That man was not the Emperor!" Falin argued.  
"And how do you know?"   
"Because after nearly 10 years, I'd think I'd recognize my own grandfather!"   
Gaius shushed her hurriedly.  
"The rebellion has ears everywhere!" he hissed. "Do you want to end up a war prisoner?"  
"If it will save my grandfather, I don't care!" Falin retorted.  
She knew better than to mention that she knew for a fact Ulfric's rebellion would be stalled just a bit. When she'd left Windhelm, he'd been only so recovered. But that was better not said. One misunderstanding could lead to her locked away, accused of treason.  
"Your grandfather is fine," Gaius insisted. "He's in no danger."  
"Didn't you get my letter?" Falin demanded. "I explained about Motierre. And-"  
"Falin," Gaius sighed, exasperated. "A man of his station. You can't just accuse him-"  
"I'm the Emperor's granddaughter!" Falin cried.  
Gaius's face hardened and she drew in a breath. He was mad now.   
"Falin, your father is the Emperor's bastard," he said, spitting the word. "Now Mede blood may run in your veins but do not make the mistake of thinking that your word will hold up against Motierre. Because without the Mede name, you are just a merchant's daughter."  
"People respect my father!" Falin argued, her temper replaced by disappointment as she realized that Gaius was right.  
"Barely," he replied with. "And only because Mede has endorsed him."  
He crossed his arms.  
"You need proof if you're going to make such accusations. Or else my father won't let you get near your grandfather."  
"Gaius!" they heard, the voice of Commander Maro biting but clear.  
And Gaius responded, turning to go. He glanced back at her for a brief second however.  
"I know you're here with trade items. Go to Markarth. The Silver Blood family has a lot of weight and influence," he urged.  
"And if they can't help me?" Falin demanded.  
"Then go to Riften and find Maven Black-Briar. But be wary Falin because she has ways of learning all kinds of secrets that you don't want her knowing. And your lineage, well, it may just buy her way into Jarldom with the Stormcloaks."

She rolled over, not sure which woke her up. The sunlight that streamed in the delicately weaved curtains which reminded her very much of thin cheese, so unlike the curtains kept in her own cabin which sucked light out more than vampires sucked blood. The second source of noise that raked at her soul was from downstairs. She could hear her cousin, whatever numerical rank she was, squealing over her “gorgeous wedding gown”, excited as the days drew closer and working out the last few details with the snobs from that awful dress store in the city. She buried her face in the pillow, groaning when she felt Ashanti roll as well, laying on top of her as if the lioness did not outweigh Falin by a good few tons. Ignoring her clear objections to being crushed on top of suffering an early morning and women squealing, Ashanti nuzzled her ear, her purrs deafening even as she licked Falin's ear as well.   
“I love you too,” Falin said, voice muffled by the pillow.  
She pushed herself up, dislodging the lioness just enough that her furry companion got the message, rolling off Falin and landing gracefully but heavily on the floor beneath, commencing the usual morning stretching. Falin rolled out the other side of the bed, feet landing on carpet as her toned arms reached for the ceiling. She needed to get back to the Queen's Ruby, preferably before Vittoria caught her again, trying to shove her into some monstrosity of a dress in some desperate attempt to curry favor with higher powers that be. Falin almost smirked. For all her wealth, Vittoria's power was limited. While Falin couldn't fault her for trying to gain more, she didn't feel like being used. Keeping track of the voices downstairs, Falin dressed quickly, lifting and securing Ashanti's saddle onto her afterwards as though it was second nature. Which it was. Ashanti stretched, padding away, perfectly content and blissfully unaware of the political storm Falin would soon step into. Of course, massive lioness, even saddled, did not encourage one to get close. Falin followed in her wake, hoping perhaps that that would discourage Vittoria. The squeals fell silent as Ashanti came into view, preceding Falin's own entrance. While she rarely attended court functions, she did so enjoy the way heads turned in her direction when she entered a room.  
“Vittoria, good morning,” she greeted, voice raised just enough that any potential words the other woman spewed would be lost in the wake of Falin's own.   
Falin stretched, the movement revealing the tiniest hint of hidden daggers she stored all over her body. It certainly discouraged conversation.  
“Oh, I did so enjoy staying here!” Falin went on.   
She gave a dramatic sigh.  
“Its such a shame I simply must be on my way!”  
“Oh dear!” Vittoria said, her voice matching Falin's overly fake.  
She lowered the admittedly beautiful gown she held in her hands, the white fabric cascading over one of her stuffed cushion chairs, something she'd imported straight from the Imperial City. She rested one of her now free hands on her chest.  
“Oh must you?” she gasped.  
Falin smiled, gently, not to overdue it.   
“Trade routes won't establish themselves,” she explained. “And Skyrim's pretty big.”  
“It is the perfect time to be on the roads,” mused Aquillius. “Stormcloaks have pulled much of their forces back and from the roads to defend Windhelm.”  
He looked at Falin, offering a small smile. She didn't trust it, of course. Though she supposed he got props for tryin.  
“I'm sure you can handle a few bandits on the road.”  
Falin nodded his way, already exhausted with the entire conversation. Games were fun. Political manuevering was not.   
“I'm sure I can.”  
She nudged Ashanti's flank with her knee and the lioness weaved forward, forgoing the food laid out for the door which Falin opened, shutting it on Vittoria's cries of her name. Free of the stifling atmosphere inside, Falin broke into a sprint, one Ashanti picked up with ease. For one moment, it felt like a morning in the Imperial City. Or Anvil, racing Thaille back to the house where Sehna would have a feast waiting for them and Baulas would be waiting eagerly for stories of the high seas and pirates, sea monsters or even exciting storms. That realization was shattered by the sound of the market, awash of people yelling about their goods as well as people crying in surprise at a few hundred pounds of lioness in their midst. Falin skidded to a halt, careful to catch Ashanti's saddle, wrangling the creature around. She needed to speak to the blacksmith anyway and so she guided Ashanti that way, ignoring the obvious stares. She was use to being the center of attention. It had been a requirement, growing up, the daughter to the Emperor's bastard. If she wanted to see her grandfather, it meant attending functions with her father, ones meant for merchants. It had made people suspect that she was interested in the merchant's life and since no one had raised a fuss about her being there, well, she went with it. A merchant's life was a good one. Prosperous, given her father's history. And she did have a way with people. 

 

Beirand was a man she knew fairly well. She'd attempted to speak to him, once she'd gotten herself under control, her first day in Solitude. He hadn't been interested of course. Not with the war waging. Admittedly, Falin didn't much care who won. The bigger picture wasn't good for anyone and so she remained focused on what it was she had to do. While her father's agenda was one of import, it paled in comparison to her own. Still, if she was to convince Thaille that she'd chosen to follow her father's plans rather than her own, she had to give him reason enough to agree to let her go to Markarth.  
“Beirand,” she greeted, cheerfully, placing a grin on her face.  
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Older men were always suited her better. They knew their way around a body and usually had more years to perfect their stamina. However, her goal was not to seduce the smith. The ring on his finger kept her away, which was just a manner of values.Despite all her intents to not come across as sultry, from the dreaded look the man threw her as well as the blatant staring his assistance was doing at her. She was used to being publicly admired and had any of her crew been with her, she would've almost felt sorry for the beating the guy would've awarded himself. Any other time and she would've flirted a bit. But she was on a schedule.  
“I've come to talk,” she insisted. “Solitude is sorely in need of a steady flow of money. My father is prepared to offer that. He doesn't just employ traveling merchants and caravans. He has mercenaries hired to protect his investments.”  
The Nord was clearly ignoring her, focusing on his work. She didn't blame him. He was supplying a whole army nearly.  
“Newly established trade routes would lessen traffic on the roads where bandits are already set up. I know that the Jarl has volunteered a decent supply of soldiers to the Legion. We're talking about revitalizing the trade system in Skyrim. The cost-”  
“That's what it boils down to, eh?” Beirand cut in, finally turning to face her.  
Falin bit back a smirk. She was well aware of Solitude's financial status.   
“I have no doubts that those Elisif volunteers are men willing to go, knowing the Empire will pay them for their service,” she remarked. “Solitude's coffers are drying up fast. The war has not been kind.”  
She uncrossed her arms.  
“My father could care less for sides. What he does care about is making sure people are safe and provided for. He has the man power to do that but he can't ask them to travel here and not pay them. All we're asking is for your help to convince your fellow merchants to raise a stipend and get Imperial goods flowing in the city and outwards. Encourage people to begin using the new roads and allow me to use your name as my foothold. People on at least the Legion's side of things will trust that about you.”  
She held out her hand, expecting more resistance. She wasn't even fully done with her argument. Her surprise stayed hidden though as the man accepted her offered hand, squeezing tight. She let her features settle into a smile, warm as she could make it.   
“You won't regret this,” she assured him.  
He didn't share her optimism, face still grim.  
“We'll see,” was all he said.  
But she could tell he wanted to say so much more.


	2. Chapter 2

Beirand had been a success. She almost wanted to sing. Probably would have if she had the voice for it. But she chose not to, returning to her ship, prepared to rub Thaille's face in her success, act as enthused about her father's attempts to branch out to Skyrim as a good daughter would. It helped that with a foothold in Solitude and a note with Beirand's esteemed name on it, vouching for her, there was no arguable reason for her not to press on. The trick was ensuring she got to leave alone. She made her way onto her ship, steps confident and came across her crew of all men. They were all loyal, hand picked by her father specifically because he trusted them to do right by her. And watching them work now, knowing that they were picking up the slack in the business corner of things while she ran wild, she was glad for the familiar faces and the hard work they did. Beside her, also enjoying the familiarity of the Queen's Ruby, Ashanti sprawled on the middle of the deck, intent on sunning herself. The large cat was nearly the size of a horse and had been the runt of her litter, a pet turned companion when it was revealed that she was going to get much bigger than her parents had originally thought. Falin smiled at that tawny fur that had always been a source of comfort. She was grateful as well to Gaius. She'd lost her one lead to the Dark Brotherhood. And if she'd hoped to track down the Arch Mage, well, she was out of luck there as well. They'd gotten a head start on her, leaving her in Windhelm which had admittedly been dangerous for her. By now, the Arch Mage would simply sound like a rumor to Falin had she not met the woman herself. The rumors of her still came and went, whereas Syra was effectively gone. The one lead Falin had and she'd gone poof. The woman's Wanted poster did look lovely in Falin's cabin, front and center on her wall of obsession. And if she intended to do something, to change what the sea winds brought, she had to act. That meant heading to Markarth. How excellent that her own father had provided her the perfect excuse then. She approached her Redguard first mate, knowing full well Thaille didn't trust her, crossing his arms, his shirt straining against the mass that was his broad chest.  
“Thaille,” she sang.  
“I know that tone. And given you were so cross last night when you came to inform me your were staying in the city, it says nothing good,” he grouched.  
“Thaille, come now,” she cooed. “I merely was going to ask for that fancy map of yours.”  
“Its a map of Skyrim. One of many,” he said. “Nothing unique or special about it. What do you want?”  
“Who says I want anything?” Falin asked, feigning innocence despite Thaille clearly sensing she had ulterior motives.  
“You only bring out flattery for things you want,” Thaille retorted.  
“Name one instants!” she ordered.  
Thaille's deep voice took on a high pitched mock tone, meant to be female. Meant to be her.  
“Oh, dear lady Beneva, that hat is absolutely darling. And the low cut of your bodice quite elegantly accentuates your impressive bosom,” he recited from memory.  
Falin grinned, admittedly goofily.  
“Yeah, she was fun,” Falin confessed.  
“Don't forget that peasant woman!” Peck called down from the Crow's nest.  
He must have been watching Thaille's display and Thaille seemed in a giving mood, posing dramatically, waggling his eyebrows at Falin as though he was so charming, giving an extra bit of wiggle to his hips as he tried imitating the saunter Falin had spent years perfecting.  
“My dear woman, the callouses on your hands boast strength. I do so love that in a woman. And your eyes. Oh! I almost feel at home in your presence, so like the open sea they are.”  
There was roars of laughter all around and Falin simply rolled her eyes, reaching out and swiping the map from Thaille's belt.  
“Mock all you will, you clouts,” she encouraged, feigning offense. “More women would have Falin in their beds than they'd have you lot.”  
Thaille laughed, patting her head, knowing she wasn't as upset as she pretended to be. Her reputation in the Imperial City would've ruined a lesser woman, crushed a lesser spirit. But she'd built that reputation by piling it on a lot of others with reputations they couldn't ruin. Added to the fact that Falin was just that damn good and they knew opening their mouths would ensure they'd be without for the rest of their lives. Truly, a miserable fate. Falin clutched the map, beginning to retreat to her cabins.  
“Hold it, lass,” Thaille said, tone firm now.  
A complete change in seconds. He was back to being an unmovable wall.  
“What are your intentions with my map?”  
He seemed more serious than playful now so she figured saying she had only the most honorable intentions wouldn't fly right. Sighing she reached into her pocket, producing the note from Solitude's esteemed blacksmith, letting Thaille have it.  
“I figure I should mark down potential routes,” Falin explained, watching Thaille's eyes scan the letter.  
She shrugged, though he wasn't watching.  
“Not to mention that I'm going to have to leave for Markarth soon. We are on a schedule.”  
One that included Vittoria's wedding. Unfortunately. Thaille grunted his agreement, handing her back the letter.  
“I suppose I should get a horse,” he mused.  
“What do you mean?” Falin asked, not liking the near condescending look the redguard gave her.  
“You really think I'm letting you run across all of Skyrim unsupervised.”  
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. He had a son and knew how to dish out the sass as much as take it.  
“I am perfectly capable of handling myself,” she assured him. “And you know very well that even if a horse could hold your bulk, it wouldn't have half the speed needed to keep Ashanti in its sights!”  
She crossed her arms, jutting out one hip, a clear challenge.  
“Did you just imply that I'm fat?” Thaille asked.  
He raised an eyebrow at her.  
“Did Sehna put you up to that?”  
Falin shook her head at him. His attempts to distract her with humor were wasted though she did appreciate that he recognized ordering her around would get him nowhere.  
“If she did, she has good reason. You have gotten rather doughy.”  
She reached out, patting his gut which was anything but doughy and felt almost like steel.  
“But that is not the point.”  
Falin tilted her head so that she could look directly at him.  
“I can do this, Thaille,” she insisted. “You know what my father says. If I could be everywhere at once, he wouldn't need a full crew.”  
“Skyrim is different,” Thaille declared.  
“Why?”  
“Because it is. Because-”  
“Because there's bandits? Rebels? Assassins? Or its a strange land?” she asked. “Because I've faced all of those and more.”  
With her head tilted as it was, she knew he could see past the gold gorget inspired necklace that usually encircled her neck to the dark bands beneath. And there was the “and more”. She'd seen the worst and had come back stronger, with a desire to never return to it and to spare as many as she could from the same thing.  
“I don't want you out there on your own,” Thaille sighed, the way his shoulders sagged letting her know that she had won.  
“I won't be alone. Ashanti will be with me,” Falin pointed out. “Who's going to mess with that?”  
She gestured to the lioness, spread across the deck and asleep, content and looking fairly harmless. Thaille had the bite marks to prove how dangerous she could be when she got excited. He didn't envy any of the men who'd earned a bite when they were a threat.  
“I want a courier sent whenever you reach a city,” Thaille insisted. “You have to keep me updated on your location. And if you go a week without word, I will come looking for you.”  
“Even if it means putting a shirt on?” she asked, teasingly.  
“Gods forbid.”

 

She moved quietly, a credit to her new species. Even the young one did not move as she did but perhaps the eerie grace came with age. With experience. Those red eyes glittered as they always did and despite her removal from time, she seemed older than she appeared.  
“Listener,” Cicero greeted, bowing slightly.  
He knew better, mad as he was, to be too jovial around Hekth. She was dangerous. Fair and reasonable, for an assassin. But dangerous. As was expected. The Dunmer vampire approached him, the illusion that she was floating helped by the long skirts she wore.  
“Keeper, you are going?” she guessed.  
Her tone was smooth, carrying power. He could almost taste it. Amongst all that power was the sweet taste of sorrow. He did not like to think his Listener sad. She was fixing them, cleaning up the mess of that hag Astrid who'd led the Brotherhood astray. She was putting things to right, honoring the Night Mother, ensuring the world knew once more that the Brotherhood was back in power. She'd won the respect of Astrid's mutt husband and all her former allies, save the Dunmer woman who'd left, as she'd been free too. And steps had been taken to ensure they would not be betrayed. All was right, save for the fact that Astrid was still alive.  
“Yes, Listener,” Cicero replied, an excited giggle escaping him.  
He couldn't help it. He hadn't believed the Listener when she had informed him that the Night Mother had uttered his name, had hand selected him to serve her. He was the Keeper and this was unprecedented. The Keeper didn't take contracts. The Keeper cared for the Night Mother. At least, that was what the Keeper did until now. Hekth smiled gently, amused at his excitement it seemed.  
“Be careful, Keeper,” she urged. “The world out there is so much different than it was.”  
Cicero nodded, trying not to shake with excitement waiting very nearly impatiently for the Listener to finish with him. Hekth moved on, ever silent, returning back to where she had come. She could hear Cicero leave, hear the faint creak of the door as it opened and closed. Which was true of wherever she was in the Sanctuary. Her senses had already been fine tuned from a life lived as an assassin, enhanced by her vampirism. It was how she caught the faint chanting that came from the intricate prison she'd put together, heading right towards it as she did. She couldn't be too careful, not with what the chanting could potentially be. With all the grace and collected poise she could manage, she made her entrance into the dark little room, kicking the door shut and staring into the darkness. The bars came into focus first.  
“Mother.”  
Once upon a time, that voice had meant only good. Her first born, a near mirror of her and Arnan. Proof that they were meant to be, no matter what tried to pull them apart. He'd been a source of comfort at one point and now, he was a source of regret.  
“Feeling up to talking then?” she guessed.  
“I always feel like talking,” he replied. “You just never want to hear what I want to say.”  
His grin was boyish, almost innocent. But she could see his fangs, see the monster he tried hiding behind youthful features. It was grotesque. In a moment she could truly see why the Divine and Daedric alike so despised vampires. She lifted her eyes to his, to the red eyes that had survived his transformation.  
“Has it ever crossed your mind that I do not share the same desire to ruminate on the past?” she inquired.  
“It has. Perhaps because looking at me now, you wonder how you could have so misjudged my fragile nature. So ignored the signs that perhaps I was not meant to be an assassin. And had you seen such traits in me, what would you have done, Mother?”  
Hekth stared at him, blank and unfeeling outwardly projected. Inside her insides churned. She felt rage, shame and sorrow. Staring at Dyre, she told herself he was valuable alive when the truth was he was useless now. He had crossed his patron, his creator would not have him and what power he had had all been an illusion, hiding the more powerful threat behind him. A fact he did not seem to get.  
“Dyre, I would have sent you away,” she replied.  
She could tell her words shocked him. So steady they were and equally piercing as she watched that smug smile fall from his lips. She almost smiled at that but that would give too much to him.  
“My feelings on the past are unchanged. I loved that boy, the child I raised. The child much to kind and good for the dark world I lived in. My only regret was that I was too selfish to listen to those who encouraged me to send you away,” she informed him matter of factly. “I was arrogant and deaf to the wisdom handed to me.”  
Now she smirked, letting a bit of malice find its way onto her face.  
“And perhaps I should learn from that part of my past. Listen to those who say I should kill you, rather than leaving you here to rot,” she suggested.  
His expression soured and he glared daggers her way, his temper ever present.  
“You would never harm your son, your child!”  
“You are correct,” she admitted, her own glowing eyes flashing in that dark room. “But you are my child no longer.”

 

It was official, she hated mountains. And rocky terrain. Ashanti seemed to relish it, tearing over the uneven ground, leaping wide gaps and skirting ones she couldn't quite make until she found a narrower gap. It wasn't all mountains however, of which Falin's rear was grateful for. She'd bounced a lot in the saddle and was nursing a sore backside but at least the forest around them boasted even ground. Ashanti had also been forced to slow her pace, avoiding trees a lot harder when they were closer together. It gave Falin a chance to consult her map, a task just a bit difficult for her in the growing dark. That was the bad news. The good news, she was glad to observe, was that she was actually very close to Markarth, evident by the change in terrain once again, from an abundance of trees to more mountainsides and hills adorned with grass. Perhaps another hour, at most. Looking at the sky, at the way the sun streaked it as it sank and the twin moons rose, she was confident she'd have moonlight as her guide and so she urged Ashanti forward, letting the cat guide them. If there was one thing the lioness knew it was civilization, the likes of which was basically the reason for her existence currently. “Get us to Markarth, girl,” she encouraged.  
The lioness was tentative, sniffing the air, that feline body twisting as she tested the, turning in circles. At the same time, her ears flickered slightly, catching sounds Falin would never hear from such a vast difference. Finally, the lioness sneezed and surged forward, taking off at a fast pace. She knew, somewhere in her heart of hearts, that Markarth meant more than better and new trade routes. She knew it was potentially the difference between life or death for the man who'd bring her tiny meat pies when he brought his granddaughters treats though he didn't quite see why they'd chosen a lioness as a pet for a young child as opposed to a dog or a much smaller feline. He'd rolled with it and won her trust, not an easy task back in the day. Not for an Imperial. Her pace seemed to quicken beneath her mistress's legs, muscles tensing that didn't usually, a sense of more power behind each stride as she tore up tufts of grass and dirt, charging her way to the hustle and bustle that spelled out a city. 

 

The horse was clearly panicked. Good. She was as well. Her mind went instantly first to her clothes. She'd been stripped of the comforting clothes that had been her constant. They weren't too fine but they were not the rags many a slave had worn. Now, however, she wore just that as if she was no better than a prisoner, marched off to be interrogated. Only the marching had not been on the land she called home but onto a ship, her persecution march spanning an ocean. Now, the ground beneath her feet was cold and hard, unforgiving to the soles of her feet, her only saving grace the callouses remaining of a life spent running barefoot and free, wild and untamed. And happy. She wished for those days, yanking the horse's reins, her bleeding hand grabbing the horn of the saddle. The jagged edge of a stirrup not properly made cut into the flesh of her foot but she ignored it and the pain, panic and adrenaline her friend as tendrils of lightning shot past her head, just missing the horse and her though it singed stray wisps of the horses tail.  
“Move you stupid beast,” she ordered and she yanked those reins, forcing the horse around, letting it do exactly what it wanted to and flee.  
She,meanwhile, held on for dear life and her life was very dear. She buried her face in the horse's mane, mentally recoiling at the smell. Her jaw ached as she clenched it tight and, as those strong legs carried her away from her captors, she could feel the wind as it kissed her skin, felt it settle into the beads of sweat that had broken out in her tension. Tears flowed down her face, dropping onto the horse's white coat, revealing the hideous evidence of filth that clung to her in the form of black drops. It broke something inside, the anger rising to clench tightly around the sobbing little girl whose world had just been so violently wrenched away from her. The desire for revenge seethed inside her and she quelled it, knowing she was in no condition to seek it out. Not yet anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

A lioness in Markarth went over about as well as was to be expected. Falin wasn't blind to the whispers, some fascinated and others panicked. She kept Ashanti close, one hand on the lioness's head. A rather difficult task when she wanted to explore and poke around the city. Had it not been so late, Falin would have let her. Instead, she continued on her way. Her status being what it was, she should've gone straight for the Keep, made her presence known to the Jarl. However, she liked knowing who she was dealing with and where she stood. Having a few advantages didn't hurt. So she steered Ashanti towards the inn, pushing through the doors. The atmosphere was no different than that of the people outside. She got the sense that people were just as wary of her as they were the predator at her side. Wordlessly, she flashed the bar keep a few septims, enough for a drink if she'd calculated right. He nodded, understanding, and got to making her brew as she took a seat in a chair by the fire. Ashanti settled at her feet, stretching out briefly before curling her body around Falin's chair. Meanwhile, the Halfling glanced around the room and found her gaze drawn to the woman in the chair beside her. She was a redguard, the firelight greatly complimenting her brown skin. She couldn't help herself, staring blatantly and after a few moments, the woman's hazel eyes drifted to her. She said nothing, lifting one eyebrow at Falin and the halfling smiled.  
“Its rude to stare,” the redguard insisted, her tone board.   
She didn't move, her body facing that fire, skin nearly glowing, her fingers interlaced. Enough so Falin could notice the callouses. So not a lady entirely, as they were more in line with sword wielding than that of a broom. Falin leaned forward a bit, folding her hands, using them to hide her grin. She did so enjoy a challenge and this redguard was proving to be all kinds of fun.  
“My manners are not what builds my legacy,” she said in response to the chastising. “Rather, my charm does half the work.”  
“And the other half?” the other half of her conversation inquired.  
She didn't sound interested even at that, seemingly asking out of politeness. Probably raised in a noble house where the game was small talk. Her accent alienated any of Hammerfell's lot however.   
“My skills in bed, of course,” Falin bragged.  
Those hazel eyes closed, as if the woman was already tired of her. There was no tension in her face however and so Falin stayed, reaching down with one hand to stroke Ashanti's head, lest the beast sense her excitement. She had managed to arrange her features into something akin to polite enthusiasm rather than mad woman glee.  
“I will take your word on that,” the redguard admitted.  
“Pity,” Falin pouted and this worked a small, cocky smile from the woman across from her.  
“I have no interest in women,” she explained.  
“You're missing out,” Falin laughed.  
She extended one gloved hand.  
“Falin,” she said by way of introduction, pleased as that chestnut skinned hand slid into hers.  
“Zadara,” was the response.  
They shook and Falin marveled at the strength she felt in the grip as well as the muscles she could now see present in Zadara's arms. The woman was clearly strong, probably a force to be reckoned with. And as a woman, especially one who looked so harmless, the element of surprise was on her side. Falin couldn't help but grin, wondering what sort of mayhem she and Zadara could create. If Zadara was into her in such a way.   
“Your grin is an absolute horror,” Zadara remarked, pulling her hand back.  
“I suppose you haven't heard my reputation then,” Falin assumed. “I'm mad as mad can be apparently.”  
“Because of your grin? Or the odd way you stare?” Zadara inquired.  
“Perhaps it was how I would wear dirty boots to state affairs,” Falin mused.  
“You animal,” was Zadara's dry retort and Falin laughed aloud, ignoring the looks she received.  
She sat back now and a woman approached her, a mug in hand. Falin accepted, gratefully, handing over some coin which satisfied the woman who left.  
“I would not drink if I were you,” Zadara warned and her voice was low and cool, all trace of humor gone. “They cannot seem to separate you elves.”  
“Ah, the fun kind of Nord,” Falin remarked. “The stubborn.”  
Her hand tightened around her mug even still. She was not blind. She resembled her mother, for the most part, hints of her father present. In her jaw and in her smile, or so her sister claimed. Few would look and see that, especially in these war torn times.  
“So, you like Nords,” Zadara guessed, that eyebrow of hers rising again.   
Perhaps it was her tell. Falin grinned, setting aside the mug of mead.  
“I like orcs,” she corrected the redguard. “But anything will do in a pinch.”  
Zadara's smirk was sarcastic and tired at the same time.  
“Perhaps you should take a peek at the door,” she suggested and Falin did, her curiosity her weakness.   
Her gaze found the orc Zadara had directed her to and she smirked.   
“You have an eye,” she praised.  
The redguard stood, dusting off her clothes. Not that it did much good. She was practically in rags but it seemed a habit of hers. The clothes did not match her behavior and before Falin knew what was happening, she'd reached out, catching hold of Zadara's wrist. Zadara tensed, her entire body rigged. Recovering some of her composure, Falin reached into her pocket, where she kept a few coins, on the off chance a thief snagged her coin purse. She snagged every coin, pressing them into the other woman's hand.  
“Don't argue, just accept,” she pressed.   
She moved on then, her steps taking her away before Zadara could renew her efforts of returning the coin.

 

“Don't argue, just accept.”  
Zadara was still sitting and practically repeating the words to herself, ignoring the guards below her as they tried coaxing her down. She,however, liked high places. She didn't want to waste the precious coin on a inn room. If she wanted flea bites, she'd sleep in the stables. Why pay for that? She was more comfortable now in the simple miner's clothes she'd procured, as clean as one could be bathing from a stray bucket. What she did know was that her hair was much cleaner now, the dark brown ends brushing against her face in the night air, free of the grime and blood tat had caked itself in her hair and all over her body. Clean now and just a bit sleepy, she reached into her newly purchased pack, sliding out an apple and digging in. From her perch she could look over Markarth and even see the giant front gates. Gates which seemed to be the only way in and the only way out. Which meant if her former captors had a thought to head her way, she'd see them coming. Her gaze was attracted by a bouncing ball of energy with red hair. Ah, yes, the generous Falin who'd clearly wooed her orc target as he trailed not too far behind her, giving her directions to a little tucked away corner she wouldn't have thought to look for. She'd smelled sea air on the woman and her clothes were nothing that one would find in Markarth or any heavily Nordic city. They made heavy clothes, meant to take a blow, to strike fear and to keep out the chill. Either Falin had not ventured far north or else she simply didn't mind the cold's chill creeping across all her exposed skin to freeze what was covered. She was clearly a stranger in Skyrim, as Zadara herself. And if that was the case, perhaps she could be swayed to help her. If Falin was of Valenwood, there was only half a chance that the woman was a Thalmor loyalist. And even if that was the case, there was no way any of Elenwen's little minions, the Altmer that served her, waiting in the wings for her to make a mistake, would share news of Zadara. Most likely, those that knew were few and far between, only those ambassador trusted. That in itself was a rare commodity. Yes indeed. If Falin was a Thalmor puppet under Elenwen's thumb, the woman would've captured her on sight, citing authority to any who may object. Or else she would've scampered off to Understone Keep, where Zadara had spotted a parade of Thalmor agents returning to, rather than following a orc to his abode. Perhaps in a city such as Markarth, where her presence was suspicious and the locals were wary, she could enlist Falin's help. She had to return home, the only place she would be safe, the only place Elenwen's influence didn't reach. To do so, she'd either need a boat, an unlikely commodity given that the Empire and the Thalmor kept a tight grip, or as tight as possible, on ships leaving or entering Skyrim's waters. The war was an inconvenience in that regard. Which meant she needed the Thieves Guild. Whispers turned to History, if they could steal and Elder Scroll, especially from the Imperial Library, then they could smuggle her back to the Isles.

 

She couldn't deny the vast improvement in her mood, emerging as she did the next morning from the orcish overseer's humble abode. It made it feel as though Markarth had been worth it. Stretching, she flinched just a bit against the sunlight before her eyes adjusted. She found herself enjoying the stone around her, her footsteps carrying her into the market place. Which she didn't like as much. It was rather dismal, a few stalls as opposed to the bustling Market District she was use to on her trips to the Imperial City. She almost chuckled, realizing she did rather miss home. She missed the grins pointed her way, the delight she was often greeted with because people knew her, knew her father. Her father may have been the Emperor's bastard ,and not too popular an emperor at that, but her father was an honest man that had won much love. He was looked upon favorably by Mer for marrying one of their kind, servants and beggars liked him as well as he'd married a slave. Not only that but he'd freed her, freed his daughter as well, when the former master of his wife had tried reclaiming what was no longer his anymore. Falin smirked a bit, thinking that perhaps if their father was a storybook hero, Audarra would be in full swoon, charmed by this fake hero, ignoring the fact that there was plenty about their father to admire. All she saw was the clumsy but lovable man that had run them around on his shoulders when they were little. Shaking away from the usual criticism she had regarding her elder sister, Falin brought her fingers to her lips, whistling loudly. Ashanti absolutely adored being around people. Growing up around merchants, the large cat adored planting herself in your path, though not in the way, to guilt crew and client alike with her feline charm into slipping her stray treats or little pats. Falin did not expect the lioness to deviate from her usual routine, despite them being in Markarth rather than home. So when the whistle went unheeded by the feel of a hundred odd pounds of feline enthusiasm nearly crushing her, she knew something was wrong instantly. Ashanti was independent. She strode where she wanted, her curiosity often her guide and it had yet to kill her. But she came when called, knew Falin would not whistle unless it was necessary. And in this strange land, Falin wanted her trusty companion as close to her as was possible. And yet, on her second whistle, there was still no Ashanti. Cold panic gripped Falin but she swallowed it down or forced herself to. There was a slim possibility, slim, that the large cat had headed out on her own, probably to track something down to fee herself. Falin forced herself to think happy thoughts. Ashanti could handle herself, she was probably the most dangerous beast in Skyrim, or one of them. And even if she came into something she couldn't handle, she was a fast cat. She'd run, find Falin. Or return to Solitude to board the ship. Yes, that was it. She breathed out, forced herself to relax. Comforted by that, she turned in the direction of the Keep, whispers and, of course, insider information, telling her she'd find the Silver Blood's patriarch within its walls at this hour. Her mind on her whole reason for being in Skyrim, she forced aside any lingering doubts on her companion's whereabouts and headed off to talk to a man about an assassin. 

 

His dagger twirled in his fingertips, something so enticing about watching the blade slice through the air, cleaned now of the blood that had decorated it just before. It was exhilarating, being back in the field, killing in service to the Dread Father. Not that he did not see the honor in being the Keeper. In truth, he'd long since accepted that his hand would spill no more blood. That he would serve the Night Mother until his passing, in which he'd find himself in the care of the Dread Father, his soul to be used, morphed or discarded, in a rare instance, as Sithis saw fit. That his role seemed to be changing, a contract coming his way in fact, was exciting. It held promise. He was not so idealistic as to hope for change or to get excited over the smallest one. That would be foolish. He stepped carefully now, so as not to disturb the freshly fallen snow that had decorated Dawnstar too badly. The new home of the Brotherhood, far more extensive than the one near Falkreath. And one that Astrid was potentially unaware of. Granted the new Sanctuary required work. Decades of abandonment had not been kind. The telltale signs of animals that had nested there were still evident, amongst such flaws as leaks and a draft he hadn't quite figured out the source too. The sanctuary was lacking but much safer than the risk that Astrid would rat them out. Their numbers hadn't suffered much. Syra's presence had divided them as it was. When Astrid was revealed to be a traitor, serving Alduin rather than Sithis, it had lost her husband's support and strengthened the little Dunmer trollop so proud of the Brotherhood's outreach. Which, of course, had cost her greatly. Cicero idly wondered where they were but knew it was not his place to question. He may have been given a task, despite being Keeper, but his role did not change. 

 

She was hesitant to leave the Sanctuary. First and foremost, because she was not accustomed to Skyrim. Then came the matter of Dyre. He was a sneaky one, with honeyed words. She should've been proud. Volunruud came into view and she arranged her features as best she could, drawing her hood over her head. It shadowed her face, hanging low enough over her eyes that she could hide the distinct way they glowed. She'd been warned of the Nordic tombs by her fellow assassins. Many a time, a panicked target had sought to hide in a tomb, bringing with them guards and weapons, to deal with the shambling corpses of fallen warriors. She had always had a passion for history and heroic tales, one that even the darkness that always accompanied her could not dim. A tomb potentially filled with them? It should've excited her. Instead, she found herself thinking back to Dyre. He was a monster, there was nothing keeping him alive, no potential use he could be anymore. But she still kept him alive. The tomb opened with ease, the cobwebs disturbed as it was. Firelight illuminated the halls already. Clearly, her client hadn't been waiting long. Hekth paused briefly beside the skeleton poised on a chair, something in her sensing a semblance of life. She reached out, popping off its head, a feat made easier by her enhanced strength, tossing the head into the fire as she continued on. Her path was unobstructed, lit by torches and the skeletal remains of once great warriors who sought to protect the tomb from those who had no interest in its contents. She took everything in, her eyes catching everything despite the low light. And up ahead, she could hear them. The two awaiting her, the client and perhaps a guard, were silent as could be. No words were exchanged. But she could hear their heartbeats, their blood singing in their veins. If she had not fed, it would be a most enticing song. She paused a moment, trying to remember where she knew that name from. Motierre. It struck a cord a familiarity, as though she had indeed heard it before. But from where she could not remember. With a deep breath, one she regretted as putrid air assaulted her nostrils, she continued moving, entering the small ante chamber. Her gaze went to the guard first. He tensed, a flash of worry and suspicion in his eyes. Not fear however. Which meant he had not noticed Hekth's eyes, the lack of life or warmth. Or if he did, he just explained it away as a side effect of being an assassin. There certainly was no way for him not to believe her one. She'd come wearing her uniform, the black and crimson robes a perfect replica of the ones she'd worn centuries ago. She had no use for theatrics, it was one of the things she'd happily given up when she'd been named Listener. But clients so enjoyed having their imaginations before them. She let her lips curve upward, amused that, even now, people were so very easy to read.  
“Amaund Motierre,” she greeted. “You prayed to the Night Mother and she has heard.”  
She bowed, part of her hoping he realized she was mocking him.  
“How may we be of service?”  
She straightened, taking him in. He'd stood straighter when she bowed. Rather pompous, or else a fan of putting on airs. He seemed overly confident, as if assassins were people he dealt with daily. For all his bravado, his heart raced. He was scared but cleared his throat.  
“By the almighty Divines, you've come. You've actually come,” he said, voice breathless. “This dreadful Black Sacrament thing...worked.”  
Hekth smirked, careful not to show her fangs, remaining silent.  
“Right then.”  
He cleared his throat.  
“You prefer to listen, is that it?”   
She responded with continued silence, merely crossing her arms.   
“Well, you must represent the Dark Brotherhood. I certainly wasn't expecting anyone else. So I'll cut right to the chase.”  
“About time,” Hekth almost said.  
“I would like to arrange a contract. Several actually. I daresay, the most important work your organization has had in, well...centuries,” he went on.   
“Go on,” Hekth encouraged, pushing him past the dramatic pause he had been determined to make.   
He gave a slight pout but continued.  
“As I said, I want you to kill several people. You'll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I'm sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable.”  
His nose wrinkled in judgment, as if the assassin he was hiring was below him.   
“But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target.”  
Hekth's eyebrow rose. His attempts at building her towards a reaction were absurd but had worked. She was far more invested in the job then she had been when she was told she'd be diving into a crypt.   
“The real reason I'm speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of... the Emperor.”  
She couldn't help it, couldn't help the grin that weaved across her face, the excitement that coursed through her at the sheer prospect. An emperor? Happy days were ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Bishop. He belongs exclusively to Mara who created the Skyrim Romance Mod. Please go check it out www.skyrimromance.com It serious is an amazing mod and there is so much more to come (namely Cael)

A day wasted. Had she not been so tired of playing the civil merchant's daughter, bending over backwards for Thonar, the only Silver-Blood that would stop and talk to her. The eeriest feeling settled over her as she left the Keep, under cover of night. It had provided her with the opportunity to write a letter and have it sent to Thaille however, as per their agreement. Strangely enough, however, the time did not magically make Ashanti reappear. She was unnerved but stepped into Markarth. Something felt off, besides her mental state at any given time. The dark streets were it. They felt too quiet. Falin kept moving, though she was still suspicious. Granted she'd been in Markarth for only one night but even the capital city had a night life and it was ripe with secrets and lies, regardless of what time of day. It was an upside and a downside of politics. Perhaps the residence of Markarth sensed the same unnatural chill in the air, as if a dark presence had cast a shadow over the hold. A curse? Falin almost laughed at herself. Impossible. She didn't know what compelled her to look upwards. Perhaps fate or even the tantalizing glimpse of the night sky, alive with stars. Whatever the reason, up her eyes did go, landing on the briefest glimpse of three figures running across the roofs. Suspicion radiated in every part of her being and she took off as well, following the charted course of the three on the roof.

 

Her foot slid on the roof, her steady footing gone. As she hit the tiles though, she was grateful as one of her pursuers swung his sword, the blade slicing through empty air. The problem was his partner, a lithe form encased in a body suit that stuck to their skin, gender unknown. Whoever they were, they lifted their bow, an arrow readied. Zadara wasn't in their sights for long, her graceless slide off the roof punctuated then as she reached the edge, grabbing at the stone and finding a mercifully placed crack. Her muscles, honed from years of training, fell in sync and she pulled herself up just enough, listening to the progress of the two following her as they crossed the roof, probably to see if their job was done and she'd fallen to her death. Her finger tips ached with her efforts but she ignored that, letting the pain and discomfort turn into boiling rage. It made it all better as she surged upwards, her fist hitting the solid chin of her sword wielding attacker. Her surprise attack was just that, a surprise and he fell back, his sword liberated from his hand. Zadara dove for it, narrowly avoiding an arrow. She ignored the cuts on her finger tips,sword in hand, directing it at the archer.  
“Let me guess. The most honorable lady ambassador sent you,” she hissed.  
Neither assassin, for that's what they were, spoke. Zadara's eyes narrowed, absorbing as many details about her opponents as was possible, though there was little to gleam from mere appearance. The unarmed one was Breton, that she knew. But his partner. She swore internally,staring into black eyes that gave away nothing, Zadara's own gaze on the readied arrow pointed in her direction. Which complicated matters. If she'd had a shield, she'd stand a chance against an archer. But as it stood the arrow could do serious damage to her or none at all. This silent partner, dressed head to toe in black, was very good at being anonymous.  
“I'd tell you to send a message in return,” Zadara continued with false bravado. “If I intended to leave you alive.”  
She charged forward. Archer be damned. If she was going to die today, she would do so fighting and with as many arrows in her as the archer could fire off. The archer, however, seemed suddenly distracted. A shot rang out, Zadara heard the arrow slicing through the air, the whistle of an arrow as it grazed her ear shocking her. How had the archer missed? The question entered her mind lightning fast and exited at the same speed as she realized the archer before her was falling back, an arrow between their eyes. Meaning someone had gotten them first. Zadara almost turned around and was glad she didn't as the Breton made his move, charging her, revealing a dagger. She brought the sword up,warding off his dagger, shoving forward and upsetting his balance. He stumbled, teetering on the edge and almost falling until Zadara grabbed the front of his shirt.  
“Was I right?” she demanded. “Did the ambassador send you to kill me?”  
The Breton smiled up at her, as if he genuinely liked having this over her. Even if the information could've been wagered to save his own life.  
“You'll never know.”  
Zadara smirked bitterly.  
“You underestimate me,” she scolded before releasing him.  
She watched him fall, watched the cold, unforgiving stone below become a mess of blood and silver, his blood oozing into the cracks. Footsteps against the roof, soft now, approached from behind. She heard the faint hint of a bow being unstrung and turned, somehow not surprised to find herself face to face with Falin.  
“My my, a most fetching damsel,” Falin remarked.  
Anyone else would perhaps have looked menacing in the moonlight. Falin did not. It could've been a trap, this woman that had thus far only helped Zadara. But somehow she did not think so. Falin walked over to the silent partner, nudging their foot with her own.  
“Damn shame. I wanted to ask them some questions,” she remarked.  
“There's not much they could have told you,” Zadara admitted. “They were after me, most likely at the behest of Ambassador Elenwen.”  
“So, someone big and important wants you dead,” Falin summed up.  
She reached down, withdrawing her fired arrow and studying it.  
“Would they perhaps go to the extent of hiring professionals? Such as, the Dark Brotherhood?”  
Falin looked at her, looking somewhat excited.  
“I...I suppose,” Zadara admitted and she didn't like the grin that worked its way across Falin's face.  
“Z-” she said.  
“Zadara,” Zadara corrected, voice going unheard it seemed.  
“Come with me!” Falin begged.  
She caught hold of Zadara's arm, excitedly.  
“You want to drag me around with you? Assassins are after me! Do you know what kind of trouble you're inviting?” Zadara nearly shouted, reigning in her disbelief quickly.  
“I'm hunting down the Dark Brotherhood,” Falin declared, point blank.  
Zadara almost expected the woman to be joking, waiting and staring at her, sure that any second Falin's serious expression would disappear and she'd laugh. Instead, Falin's gaze remained true.  
“I caught wind of a plot against my grandfather. A man by the name Amaund Motierre is going to hire the Dark Brotherhood. He's had a bit of a head start on me so I have no doubt he's already put his plan in motion. The only way to stop him is to stop the Dark Brotherhood.”  
“But to stop them, you have to find them,” Zadara surmised.  
“Or they can find me,” Falin hinted at.  
Zadara sighed, looking again at the body on the roof. She was on her own, with little coin, and borrowed at that, to her name and not enough to afford a letter home. That was before the bribe she'd have to include in order to insure it made it to her papa's hands rather than to one of his rivals. Looking back at Falin, she shrugged in resignation and Falin's face broke into a grin.  
“I knew you'd come around!” she cheered.  
Her green eyes caught the light as she looked to the side, listening for a second, the change like watching water spread.  
“What is it?” Zadara asked, truly curious.  
“Your assassins weren't alone,” Falin reported.  
She grinned, her grip sliding to Zadara's wrist as she began pulling the woman in the opposite direction.  
“We'll leave Markarth quietly,” she explained as she led the way. “My business is done here and if no one sees you leave, they'll probably think you wandered into the ruins. Or the catacombs.”  
She glanced back at Zadara.  
“I heard a rumor about some weird stuff going on in the Hall of the Dead so the rumors will buy you time.”  
She continued, words rushing out of her like the tide, her energy seemingly boundless. Zadara allowed herself to be dragged along but couldn't help but wonder what it was she'd gotten herself into.

 

The lioness paced in her cage. The predatory glint in her eyes was terrifying, promising that should she escape said cage, no one would be left standing. Her revenge would be absolute. It was a terrifying deviation from the animals surrounding her, common Skyrim stock, namely wolves. She was exotic and savage and her body hadn't stopped moving since she'd woken up, the tranquilizing dart wearing off fast.  
“I almost want to keep her.”  
The words hit his ears but he ignored them, his gaze on her. He was afraid to look away, in case she somehow used his distraction to escape.  
“Have you already got a buyer?” he asked.  
“Not yet,” his boss replied. “I sent word to the blokes in Riften. With the beasts. One of their boys will be in Whiterun in a few days. For the fights.”  
The lioness made her move then. Her lips curled back over her sharp teeth. With grace and power, she lunged at the bars, twisting, one large paw shooting out, catching hold of the whelp's pant leg. He cried out as she yanked him towards her, his hands going to the dirt floor, trying to crawl out from under his grasp. He felt his boss grab his collar, yanking him away last second, the leg of his pants tearing. As the feline took to tearing his pant leg apart further, he was deposited on the ground, his naked leg no worse for wear. His heart was beating near out of his chest as he stared at what was almost his fate. He hoped those dog lords were in the mood to train felines. He didn't think he'd survive otherwise. 

 

“This is the very definition of aimless wandering.”  
The voice attracted his attention and he steadied himself, casually concealing himself in the brush. He was actually surprised to see an elf emerge after hours logged of avoiding primarily Nordic hunters and Khajiit merchants hunting for fresh meat. Probably skins as well. The elf paused, glancing over her shoulder, a cocky half smile on her face that she directed at her redguard partner.  
“Z,” she said.  
“Zadara,” the redguard cut in to correct.  
“Z,” the elf persisted. “Father has always said the only way to truly appreciate a land and to know it is to do so on foot. Me getting lost is impossible.”  
She seemed confident in that.  
“Is it too late to find more assassins to kill me?” Zadara inquired. “Its preferable to death my starvation.”  
Her companion ignored her, sliding to a stop. She looked like the type to be full of energy and yet she stood still, the only thing moving the subtle shift of her hair as it moved with the breeze. He, meanwhile, remained tense and unmoved behind his tree, his eyes centered on them, compelling them to move on.  
“What is it, Falin?” Zadara asked.  
She seemed concerned and probably for good reason if she was looking for more assassins.  
“We're being watched.”  
If he'd been an animal, a predator preferably for he didn't like being hunted, his haunches would have risen. As it was, he stiffened, suddenly hyper aware of every sound he made, regardless of how subtle simply because he didn't quite know what it was that had her attention. Peeking out, he could see that Zadara had gone still as well, scanning. Her expression was guarded but blank otherwise. It was an expression he was aware he wore a lot, especially when he thought he was being tracked. The tree that so far had been his cover, shook, the bark beneath his hands splitting apart. He swore, realizing his cover was blown and dodged away, both ready for a fight and ready to run. Falin smirked, the expression revealing an impressive mouth of teeth.  
“I assumed wolf, maybe bear. Not human,” she admitted.  
The change in Zadara was instant. Her eyes flickered to the surrounding trees, her body tense and waiting for anything, her fingers grazing the sword cleverly concealed at her hip. Opposite her, Falin remained relaxed. Even discovering him, she'd remained just so, hip jutted a bit, arms at her side that had moved to her hips. No evidence to which one of them had destroyed an entire tree.  
“Who are you?” Zadara demanded. “Are you following us?”  
His gaze narrowed.  
“Following you? Why would I stoop so low?” he asked.  
“He's feisty,” remarked Falin. “I like him.”  
“Good for you,” Zadara sighed.  
The elf smirked at the dismissal,moving closer.  
“He hasn't been following us,” she reported, her green eyes studying him. “No one has. Who would? We haven't been following paths or trails. Avoiding roads too. Good assassins kill and leave a body where it will be discovered. High stakes targets usually come with a down payment, the rest delivered when there's proof of death.”  
It was subtle. He almost missed it but the sun shifted, a result of her necklace catching the light, moving as well. The bands beneath, or what he could see of them, were thick and black. His eyes widened a bit.  
“You're a slave,” he blurted, ever the charmer.  
Falin's gaze steeled, her amusement now a cover. Clearly a sore spot there.  
“I was a slave,” she corrected.  
Why it made him feel better, he didn't know. Falin studied him, a tilt to her head. There was tension in the air now and Zadara wasn't the source. Somehow, Falin was in control of the atmosphere around them and it was unnerving. A moment passed, tense and near unbearable until she shrugged.  
“Well, wilderness man, what's the closet inn?” she asked, a smile meant to charm stretching across her face. 

 

Zadara didn't enjoy the Nord. How Falin had wordlessly added him to their party and why he'd accepted was a mystery to her. And she'd been there as a witness! It made little sense but she went with it if only because the Nord seemed to know his way around. She didn't complain too much, if only because it meant someone else for Falin to pester with a million and one questions. She almost pitied him, watching him trying to make camp with an overly excited Falin hovering. Zadara squatted near the makeshift fire pit, setting to the task of actually making a fire.  
“Not yet!” he objected.  
He abandoned his tent, hurrying to stop her.  
“Oh what now?” she groaned.  
He made a face at her that she returned.  
“The Reach is crawling with Forsworn,” he lectured. “I don't know about you but I don't enjoy having my throat slit in my sleep.”  
“Forsworn?” Falin repeated, rubbing her chin.  
She made a face, as if smelling something awful.  
“Ugh, the people in Markarth wouldn't shut up about them.”  
She rolled her eyes before glancing at him.  
“Well, Lord Mysterious, are you a Forsworn?”  
“I thought he was Wilderness Man,” Zadara remarked.  
“The names will get worse until I have his,” Falin admitted. “My creativity is somewhat sapped seeing as how I didn't get any sleep last night. Or the night before that.”  
Now it was Zadara's turn to make a face.  
“That Orc?” she asked.  
“And a Nord,” Falin chirped proudly, confirming Zadara's suspicions.  
“Somehow I think there's something far more scandalous about you then dirty boots.”  
Falin laughed.  
“My dear, I never said I wasn't scandalous. Only that the rumor was that I was mad.”  
He snorted, bringing the attention back to him and Falin latched onto his arm immediately. He seemed startled at the contact but didn't seem able to extract his limb from her grip.  
“Name dear,” Falin said. “Or you will never be rid of me.”  
“Alright,” he grumped, still trying to shake her off. “I'm Bishop.”  
Zadara sat back, leaning against the pack Falin had been carrying.  
“Given how long we walked without you mentioning it, I had assumed it would be something far more shocking. Perhaps even extravagant.”  
She shrugged.  
“A pity really.”  
“And Zadara is such an impressive name,” Bishop retorted.  
“My mother chose it for me,” she replied plainly. “And then she died.”  
Falin gasped, instantly at Zadara's side.  
“You poor thing.”  
She wrapped her arms around the redguard who patted her head.  
“She didn't name me and die,” Zadara assured her. “I was 3 at the time. And I had a wonderful father.”  
Falin smiled at that while Bishop made a dismissive sound.  
“I take it you're relationship with your father was a nightmare then?” Zadara guessed.  
“I didn't have parents,” Bishop replied. “I raised myself. Learned to hunt and live off the land.”  
He sounded proud of the fact too. Zadara gave him a sardonic smile.  
“It certainly explains your apparent lack of grooming habits and social graces.”  
“If you need any help bathing, I volunteer my services,” Falin cooed ever so seductively.  
Bishop sputtered, as if he wasn't sure which of them to ream first. In the end, he settled for grumpy silence.  
“So, when do we light a fire?” Falin inquired after a moment.  
“We don't,” Bishop replied. “Not in the Reach. Its usually ideal not to camp here either. But the nearest settlement is a small village called Rorikstead. Of course its near a Forsworn camp and its best to steer clear of them entirely.”  
“Another pity,” Falin remarked to Zadara. “I was craving smoked fish.”  
She shrugged, not looking at all disappointed as she reached around the redguard, digging in her pack. She withdrew a tightly wound mound of parceled paper, unwinding the leather cord that bound them. Freed of their bondage, the papers turned out to be three separate packages. Zadara and Bishop both leaned forward, watching her unwrap those as well. One was bread and another cheese. And a third some sort of meat Bishop could honestly say he'd never seen. Zadara, however, was his opposite in that regard.  
“Mutton!” she said in excitement. “It feels as if its been ages since I've even seen the stuff!”  
“Mutton?” Bishop repeated, skeptical.  
“Its good,” Falin assured him, offering him the paper.  
Suspicious still, he withdrew a piece, ignored now as Falin passed the meat to Zadara. Observing her, he realized she seemed very excited about it. His gaze drifted to Falin, watching her now. Her gaze was on Zadara, smiling, riding the waves of excitement rolling off the redguard. It was unnerving. He tore off a piece of the meat. It had been cooked, dried and salted to preserve it, making it a bit hard to break apart. It reminded him of a piece of leather but he popped it into his mouth all the same. The world screeched to a halt as the flavor seemed to explode in his mouth.  
“I think he likes it!” Falin whisper yelled to Zadara.  
“Look at his face,” the redguard replied. “Of course he does.”  
She gave no illusions that she wasn't watching him. At least Falin was trying.  
“Want some more?”  
Falin's offer came with another pass of the mutton and he accepted. It took them a short while for the food to be passed around and repackaged tightly to avoid attracting animals in the night. Now they sat around the empty fire pit, munching contently, a water skin between them.  
“Its come to my attention that we've both shared something about ourselves,” Zadara remarked, indicating her and Bishop.  
She looked at Falin.  
“And yet, you haven't volunteered much about yourself.”  
“I thought you two were pals,” he commented, a bit confused.  
Zadara chuckled.  
“No, she picked me up in Markarth.”  
He brow furrowed.  
“However, you had a lioness with you.”  
Bishop coughed roughly, surprised. A lioness?  
“Ashanti,” Falin agreed. “I suspect she returned to the ship.”  
“Ship?” Zadara repeated. “You never mentioned a ship.”  
“My ship,” Falin explained. “The Queen's Ruby. Once part of the Imperial Naval force and now one of the best ship's in the Mede Merchant fleet.”  
“Mede.”  
Zadara repeated the name, wondering why it sounded so familiar and then it hit her.  
“As in...Emperor Titus Mede?”  
“The second,” Falin added.  
She smiled and shrugged, completely unbothered.  
“My father is the Emperor's bastard. Its no secret really. Or at least its one of the worst kept secrets in the history of secrets.”  
Bishop studied her, chewing slowly.  
“So,” he said, mouth full. “Explain the slave band.”  
“Bands,” Falin corrected.  
She tugged off her glove and even in the dying light, he could see the dark band that wrapped around her wrist. So simple and yet the implication was there. Falin studied the band as well, a thoughtful expression on her face.  
“My mother was a slave. Eventually she was bought and put to work in the house of one of Grandfather's friends and political supporters. Father met and fell in love with her. On sight he claims.”  
She smiled at that.  
“Father negotiated her away from Grandfather's friend. He paid her to work as a servant while he courted her. She was free now really and could've gone anywhere but she thought he was charming. They fell in love. She got pregnant and couldn't tell him for months because he was a merchant and had to set sail. He came back to Audarra, my older sister,” Falin explained. “Father married her not too long after he returned and about a year later, she was pregnant with me.”  
“So, wait,” Bishop requested, holding up on finger. “Your father isn't an elf?”  
Falin chuckled.  
“My father's an Imperial,” she explained. “I just happen to take after my mother.”  
He whistled low.  
“Elven slaves are popular... in certain circles,” Bishop explained. “And hard to come by.”  
“You must know a lot of slavers,” Zadara remarked dryly.  
“No, I just listen on the odd occasion I happen to venture in close to people,” he defended himself.  
“He's not wrong,” Falin informed Zadara. “My mother was pretty. She had...a lot of experience prior to meeting my father. She was very popular.”  
“I'm guessing her old master wanted her back,” Bishop guessed.  
Falin nodded.  
“It took him years but he never gave up. It took him 6 years but he eventually ambushed us on a family trip. Injured my father, crippled Audarra and captured Mother and I.”  
“Clearly it didn't work,” Bishop observed. “Unless you're in the process of escaping now.”  
“Our master is dead,” Falin informed him. “Has been for awhile now. But bands like these don't just vanish.”  
She held up her arm, drawing attention to the band there.  
“I ran away a lot and while usually so hesitant to ruin the merchandise, the master decided I needed them.”  
She yawned, stretching, laying across Zadara's legs.  
“Shall we retire to our tent, milady?” she asked.  
The sudden tiredness displayed was a far deviation from the Falin of seconds ago who'd been fidgeting even while eating. Despite not caring for him much, Zadara cast a glance Bishop's way. He shrugged and got up, brushing his pants off.  
“I'll take first watch,” he offered.  
“Fair enough,” Zadara relented with little fight.  
She was tired too, now that she really took a moment to check herself. She pushed Falin off her lap, getting up and stretching as the halfling looked up at her, those green eyes, as always it seemed, alive with mischief. She held out a hand and Falin took it, letting Zadara pick her up.  
“You're ambidextrous,” Falin noted, surprising her.  
The smile that crossed her face was unnerving, the only kind of smile it seemed Falin had.  
“Good to know.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Bishop. He belongs exclusively to Mara who created the Skyrim Romance Mod
> 
> I also want to bring up the fact that I do NOT own Lilith. She belongs to my bosom buddy known as ArchMage Lilith (duh lol). While I consult with her from time to time, much of my story and what is stated IS NOT canon in her own writings which I hope she'll soon post!

She said nothing and that was all she really needed. Words were unnecessary. If her expectations weren't obvious to her underlings, she had failed.   
“Lady Ambassador.”  
He bowed, shaking. She held back her smile. She loved their fear. It was a testament to her power and status. Taking her silence for an invitation to go on and so he did.  
“There are reports of a redguard leaving Markarth in the company of an elf,” he informed her. “As well as the discovered bodies of two dead bodies. Confirmation states that they are the... hunters in your employee.”  
She made a face then. Hunters was putting it nicely. Her assassins had failed and she cursed her luck. The girl was still alive then. While Markarth wasn't completely under her control as of yet, as Solitude was, she had a foothold there that didn't exist anywhere else. Her will could reach Morthal but past that, well, her hands were tied, her resources stretched thin.   
“Shall we be employing further means to retrieve her?” asked her sniveling page. “Perhaps-”  
“You dare to even attempt suggesting a course of action to me.”  
Her first words and she made her voice hard, the vocal equivalent of stone, her words not a question but a cold observation. He trembled harder, nearly dropping the tablet he held.  
“I would beg your forgiveness. It was not my intent,” he swore.  
Oh yes, she almost laughed at that. Terror rolled off the whelp in waves.  
“I merely hoped to be of continued use to you, Lady Ambassador.”  
“My business here is near complete,” Elenwen declared. “Have notices posted to our patrols. I want her dead but they cannot make her death a public one. Urge discretion but encourage lethal means. Her life does not matter. Only the message her death will send does.”

 

The hawk flew low and automatically, Falin stuck her arm up, welcoming the feel of talons as the bird settled. Thaille's doing no doubt. The man could tame birds as if he was one. Tied to the bird's leg was a message and she'd expected nothing less. He didn't trust or use couriers. He'd worked as one in his life and could say he'd read every message he'd ever delivered. She shook her head at whatever it was that made him him as she skimmed the note.   
“Hm.”  
She hadn't meant for it to be audible but both Bishop and Zadara immediately gave her side eyes.  
“What is it?” Zadara asked.   
“Ashanti,” Falin lead with, studying the letter. “Whenever we return to the boat, Ashanti usually brings Thaille back something. Its usually trash but he makes a big deal about it. But he doesn't even mention her in this letter.”  
“I thought you mentioned she'd gone back to the boat,” Zadara recalled.  
“I assumed-”  
“Assume nothing,” Bishop instructed. “The Reach is lousy with poachers, hunters and bandits all trying to make a buck.”  
His tone was biting and resentful, as if he had experience with one of the afore mentioned parties.  
“So, who took what from you?” Zadara asked.   
Bishop paused in his tracks, looking at her, clearly trying to discern where her curiosity came from and warring with himself in regards to how much he wanted them to know about him.   
“Karnwyr. He's....my friend. I was trying to track down the bandits that took him when I stumbled upon you two,” he confessed.  
“Who took him?”  
“Bandits is my best guess,” he confessed.   
Zadara could feel it. Could feel the doe eyes drilling into her head. She crossed her arms, trying to steel herself against it. Unable to help herself she cast a glance at Falin and instantly regretted it. The halfling stared at her with the most pleading of expressions and Zadara sighed.  
“Would you like us to help you get him back?” she asked.   
“Why would you help?” Bishop demanded, surprised and using what was his typical grumpy tone to cover it.  
Zadara hitched a thumb at Falin.  
“She's a bleeding heart and I go where she goes for the time being.”  
He seemed relieved, relaxing a bit of the tension in his shoulders.   
“You mentioned assassins before,” he pointed out to Zadara.   
He started moving again and they with him, Falin tucking her letting into her back pocket.  
“I did,” Zadara acknowledged.   
“Is that the only explanation I'm going to get?” he asked.  
“Political movements have aligned in such a way that my death would benefit an already pretty powerful person with a lust for power,” she surmised. “Its a tale as old as time.”  
“And Falin comes into this how?”  
“I'm going to keep her safe!” Falin explained before Zadara could get a word in wise.   
She smiled at Zadara now.  
“And when the Dark Brotherhood comes for you and I hunt them down, I'll tell Thaille to take you home,” she informed her.   
Bishop snorted, dismissively.  
“Well, she doesn't dream small.”

 

Excitement. It clung to the air. This was it. A job like the one before them, one that would require much planning and precise movements, came but once a lifetime. As difficult as it was no doubt going to be, the payoff would be even greater. An Emperor's life to assassins was like candy and sweets to children. After months of the Sanctuary being a cesspool of hopelessness, betrayal and rage, the sudden lift in mood was a welcome shift. Hekth observed her comrades, her fingers smoothing across the amulet that was to serve as payment. She would need to have it appraised of course but had wanted to hurry back to Dawnstar, to inform the others. And to check that Dyre hadn't escaped. Her first task done, she schooled her features and let the joy seep from her, her strides carrying her to the monster that was once her son. He waited inside, lifting those red eyes to her face.  
“Mother,” he greeted..  
His head tilted, studying her, looking for something. She remained blank, staring at him.   
“A change has occurred,” he remarked, ever observant.   
She forgot that about him.  
“Your brethren are very excited. Am I to assume a job has gone particularly well?”  
He smirked, the gesture more to himself than directed at her.  
“Perhaps you've caught that woman. Oh her name escapes me.”  
His eyes drifted tot he side as he fought to recall. Hekth crossed her arms, waiting. His powers of observation were not his only strong suit. Dyre collected secrets as if they were rare vintages to put on display. Once upon a time, he'd used those secrets for good, sneaking gifts to his fellow assassins, surprising them with things they'd only ever whispered in the darkest shadows or admitted when inebriated. Her chest ached, remembering the tiny boy who'd brought her small pearls and nonsense items, some flawed and others in flawless condition, simply because he knew she liked them.   
“The one who betrayed this lot for a greater purpose,” he continued, his act so real.  
If she did not know him, she'd believe it.  
“Astrid.”  
Hekth's voice was as blank as her face.   
“Her name was Astrid.”  
Now she smiled and it was one of mirth, her eyes still emotionless, perfectly trapping her emotions behind an impenetrable wall of suppressed emotions.  
“And there is no greater purpose than the will of Sithis.”

 

Nazir tore into the bread, watching carefully for the Listener. Sure enough, she strode into the common area. He had to admire her. She was devout, her loyalty a thing to be admired. He'd kept himself neutral as possible when it came to clashes between Syra and Astrid but he couldn't help but feel Astrid wasn't with them. He'd kept his thoughts to himself however. It had meant less trouble for him. Even now, with all that had happened, he didn't regret it. While the werewolf wasn't openly hostile, there was still a tension between him and those that had openly supported Syra, as if they were the ones to blame for Astrid choosing to worship the one thing destined to bring about the end of the world. Hekth was not like that nor was she like her daughter. Syra was a mere shadow compared to her mother. Hekth stood stone still sometimes. The most important person in the Sanctuary and yet she could more often than not go completely unnoticed. It was scary and yet there was a comfort in their leader being so capable. She handled Festus in his moods, calming his temper. She reigned in the Keeper when his excitement took hold. And very rarely ,between the veteran assassins and the new initiates Hekth had recruited, were their any contracts for him to handle. It was a step up from where they had been and he honestly enjoyed it. What he did not enjoy was Hekth's face, the expression one of detachment. It seemed her default, given how often he would catch her wearing it. It seemed easier for her to slip into that darkness, to close the lid on her emotions, than to offer the small smile she offered whoever approached her. Perhaps it had something to do with the little vampire she'd trapped off in a dark cell, banning any and all from approaching him.  
“Listener! Does the Mother speak?”  
Cicero's grating voice pulled him from his thoughts and he glanced towards the elegant coffin that housed the Night Mother. The jester danced with excitement which Hekth ignored in favor of focusing on the corpse within. She sat before the stairs, gazing up on their Dark Matron and closing her red eyes. Her raven hair slid out of her face, tumbling down her shoulders as she did as Listeners did. And listened. He smirked at his joke, which wasn't too funny if he was being honest, watching her. Everyone watched her. She was their Listener and had brought them good news, a heralding of a new chapter in the Brotherhood's existence. An Emperor to kill. It was history in the making, each and every second that led up to it. And no one wanted to miss it.

 

It had taken a good day of walking, skirting tall mountains until they gave way to more and more reaching trees. Bishop confirmed it. They had left the Reach behind and were now in Falkreath, thought they hadn't reached the town itself.   
“Finally,” Zadara sighed in relief.  
Her back ached and she felt grimy once more, this time from sweat and the dust that powdered her skin. Despite Bishop's best efforts, they'd come across the lovely Forsworn who turned out to be anything but. Ah yes, that reminded her that her new clothes now had blood stains. A perfect combination of just plain awful.   
“I heard Falkreath has an extensive cemetery,” Falin remarked, addressing Bishop.   
She'd been spouting small facts, clearly a sign of a troubled mind. She worried for her feline companion and Bishop didn't blame her, hoping that the bird she'd sent off would deliver a penned response that, yes, her Ashanti was sleeping safely on her ship and not the potential victim of bandits or poachers. The facts and rumors she'd heard seemed to be helping and he nodded.  
“Arkay's influence is heavy in that town,” he admitted.  
“That's depressing,” Falin commented. “I've always been partial to Kynareth.”  
“I would've guessed Dibella,” Bishop remarked.  
“I had assumed Y'ffre,” Zadara shared.  
“Y'ffre?” Bishop repeated.  
“Because I look Bosmer?” Falin guessed.  
Zadara shrugged, not at all ashamed. Falin chuckled.  
“My mother was called one of Dibella's handmaidens. It was a sick joke that 'master' thought up to really brag of how skilled his girls were. I know it is not the goddess at fault for the evil of that man but it is all I think about when I think of Dibella anymore. So, no.”  
Falin looked Bishop's way.  
“Not Dibella.”  
Then she looked at Zadara.   
“I was raised in the Imperial City. I love the Empire. I love my life there, the bad and the good for without both I would not be who I am. My mother tried teaching us what she could of her people but it never took. I'm an Imperial at heart.”  
She laughed.  
“A sentiment I can relate to,” Zadara said with a nod of certainty. “My mother, I remember stories she'd tell me of Hammerfell. I remember servants from there talking in the kitchen or even just to each other in the halls about their homeland. On holidays they'd work harder and finish earlier so that they may celebrate their holidays. But I never quite took to them.”  
“Wait, you didn't grow up in Hammerfell?”   
Her companions seemed surprised and Zadara smirked at what had no doubt been assumptions made about her.   
“Oh, because I am a redguard I must be from Hammerfell then?” she asked teasingly.  
“Touche,” Falin relented while Bishop simply fell into silence, pointedly ignoring her dig.   
Zadara didn't mind. Falin was such an enraptured audience.  
“I was born in Hammerfell or so I was told. In truth I grew up in the Summerset Isles,” she explained, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “As I said, my mother passed when I was only 3.”  
“And your father took care of you,” Bishop said dismissively, lifting his water skin to his lips.  
“My birth father had chosen to remain in Hammerfell,” Zadara corrected. “My papa was the master of the house and a former Thalmor Justicar. He adopted me and raised me as his own.”  
The water that spewed forth from Bishop's mouth made a perfect rainbow as it faded into the air. He looked at her, his gaze surprised. She smirked at his shock.  
“A Thalmor Justicar?” Falin repeated.  
She tilted her head, studying Zadara with an intense expression.  
“Was he a good man?” she asked.  
“He was …. a terrible Justicar to put it simply,” Zadara replied.   
Falin grinned, catching her meaning which wasn't lost on Bishop either.  
“That's information to keep to yourself,” Bishop advised, his voice taking on a softer tone.  
He cleared his throat.  
“This is Skyrim, after all. And Nords have no love for elves as it is.”  
“I'm aware,” Zadara replied, appreciating the concern he was concealing. “He's not a Justicar any longer. His family bought him a different position, to keep up appearances.”  
Bishop nodded and his gaze drifted to the path ahead.  
“Eventually we'll come across Lake Ilinalta,” he informed them both. “It should lead us to Falkreath proper or near enough.”  
“You sound thrilled.”  
Zadara couldn't help her naturally sarcastic tone.  
“I'm not a fan of people,” he explained, as if that solved everything.  
“Then I suppose its a good thing I love people,” Falin decidedly proclaimed.

She was careful. Head down, detached. It made her time at court easier. Despite her lengthy absence, she found that little had changed. Her father was still power hungry, his subjects still conniving. And she still had no place among them, being nothing like them. They didn't seem able to comprehend that and so watched her, suspicious and dangerous as she passed through the hall. She kept them at arm's length, kept moving, her gaze on the door to the courtyard garden. A lot had change, the renovation spurred by the woman she'd returned with. Serana didn't relax, not truly, until she'd emerged from the stifling castle and into the garden. The thing had been dead, months ago, when she'd first arrived with Skyrim's Arch Mage. Lilithianna or Lilith as she preferred had known something was going on in Skyrim. She'd felt echoes of imbalance. She, no doubt, had never imagined that imbalance would be the result of her half sister's handiwork or that by tracing all of Amarenthine's twisted threads, she'd uncover various plots that had been given ground work by Amarenthine's own plotting. Each one a contingency on the slim chance that she'd fail in her own mission. And truly, no one had foreseen her failing. The only explanation had been Divine Intervention because the Princes and Divines were the only creatures outside Amarenthine's power to manipulate fate. Divine Intervention had placed Syra into their path and the path of her brother. That same power had brought together Syra and Lilith and all the rest to give them one desperate fight on the streets of Windhelm. A fight that Syra had finished, charging into Sovengarde only to vanish following the battle. And not long after,the blood bond that had tied Serana to Syra had vanished. It didn't matter really. Serana had already pledged herself, temporarily, to Lilith's cause. Which was infiltrating her father's Court to find out what he and his brood knew of Dyre's partnership with Amarenthine. Hence the newest plot, the one for Auriel's bow, not to mention the hints at a journal Dyre had kept on him only to lose it somewhere in the wreckage that had once been their home. Systematically, she and Lilith had torn the old ruins apart looking for it and were so close.  
“Serana!”  
Lilith wasn't shouting but her voice was raised enough that she must have been trying to get Serana's attention for awhile.   
“Yes?” Serana asked, confused.  
Or more unnerved. She'd never quite get use to looking at Lilith and seeing, well a vampire. The Arch Mage had been hesitant. Had agonized. And then had decided that she needed to investigate Harkon. And to do that, she needed to be a vampire. Lilith had always oozed power and charm at dangerous levels, her parents Divine and Daedric. Now, it felt amplified by the vampirism. She seemed unreal and her presence was noticeably predatory and at the same time eerily gentle. It was a contradiction and it made Serana uneasy. She wasn't the only one. Miraak had looked uneasy, last they'd seen him. He was probably still pouring over centuries worth of artifacts that Dyre had hoarded in the lower catacombs.   
“You're back,” Lilith observed, concern in her glowing eyes. “Any news?”  
Serana held up the letters she carried, correspondences brought sent by way of courier from Riften where the mages had had to relocate. After Alduin's cult, disguised as Thalmor agents had obliterated the College of Winterhold, they'd been given refuge at Goldenglow Estate, courtesy of Brynjolf. Lilith was financing a project to rebuild the College but it was still a long time coming. In the meantime, she had to stay in contact with at least the instructing mages in her service, proof that she was still alive. Lilith took the letters,settling into a chair to open them as Serana took the opposite chair, watching her read them as well as admiring the surrounding garden. When they'd arrived and Lilith had spent weeks both endearing herself to her father as well as inciting his temper, asking to rebuild the way into the garden and restoring it. He'd blanched, probably thinking of his wife and her hours spent in it, carefully tending to her herbs. And how much he loathed her. At last he'd agreed and it had been done. The garden had been a mess and Lilith had made it flourish as she'd pieced it back together. The icing to the cake was that Harkon had banned his court from venturing into it. He could not stop Lilith or Serana, their efforts making the humans kept in the dungeon last much longer so that finding more was not a necessity when he had better things to do, but he still did not like it. It had been the perfect place for Miraak to hide, his expertise priceless when it came to Dyre's hoard. Serana jumped as a door creaked open, glad to see it was just the subject on her mind. Miraak strode from the southern most tower remains, heading their way, He was covered in dust and spider webs, brushing them off him as he walked. He no longer wore his mask and so she knew the second his gaze fell on her.  
“Serana,” he greeted as he alighted the stairs.  
“Did you find anything new?” she asked.  
“Nothing but bodies and blood. And the occasional gargoyle,” Miraak reported, sounding exhausted.  
He lowered himself to the top stair, looking up at them.  
“I suspect Dyre worried eventually he'd get caught in the ruins. I have my doubts that he left everything here. Or if he did, he hid it well enough that it will take a miracle to find,” he reasoned.  
Lilith lowered the letter in her hand.   
“Could it be possible that he had a cache elsewhere?” she asked.  
“Or Amarenthine did,” Serana pointed out.  
They all fell silent, contemplating this. Their main goal was the Elder Scroll. The one Dyre had stolen from Serana. And, with luck, a clue as to where Amarenthine was. She'd all but vanished, probably to come up with a darker plot. Lilith sighed, going back to her letter, her frustration obvious. However, it was eclipsed by the surprise that worked its way onto her face.  
“What is it?” Serana asked, worried and also hoping for good news.   
Lilith held up the letter in question.  
“An engagement party,” she reported. “In Solitude.”  
“You can't go!” Serana pointed out, yanking the letter away and skimming it.  
Lilith let her and didn't fight for it back.  
“Serana, in all honesty, I don't think I have a choice.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Bishop is a product of the Skyrim Romance Mod which was created by Mara. Check it out if you can!

She slipped the small ring onto her finger, smiling at the small gold band and the emerald that glimmered back. She could feel the last grips of the enchantment, knowing it was finally fading. Still smiling, she turned her green gaze on the woods around their camp, breathing audibly as she saw the blue shapes around her, the life in the forest. She could see a lumbering bear, a few feet from camp. No need to worry, as it was slowly making its way away from them.   
“So, Bishop's asleep then?”  
Zadara joined her, sitting next to her. Falin let her eyes flash to the redguard, blinking a few times before squinting. If she focused, she could ignore the enchantment's effects and see Zadara rather than her life force. The redguard looked at her oddly but seemed to accept that Falin was simply weird.  
“With how paranoid he acts sometimes, I'd have expected him to be awake all night,” Zadara continued, her observation having merit.  
Bishop spent a lot of time glancing over his shoulder when they'd traveled on the road. Falin glanced at her hands, bare in the night air. Clear as day on her skin, on her wrists, were the black bands that matched the one on her throat.  
“Paranoia that could keep him alive,” she mused.   
And free. Though she didn't say it. Something else now had her attention. Her eyes narrowed, the glimmer of blue that had flickered into existence in the distance. Her eyes narrowed, not so much in alarm but in curiosity.   
“Hm,” she remarked aloud.   
She got to her feet, on edge though she didn't quite know why.   
“What's wrong?”   
Zadara was alert now, probably recognizing Falin's odd fixation on something far away.   
“Someone's coming our way,” Falin reported.   
Bishop moved then, rolling to his feet. Almost as though he'd been awake the entire time.  
“Do you know who it is?” he asked.  
“No idea,” Falin replied, taking in stride the fact he'd been awake.  
“Do you even sleep?” Zadara demanded.  
“Light sleeper,” Bishop replied his tone curt.  
Good. She wasn't in much mood to chit chat either. Falin slipped off her ring, dropping it in her pocket and pulling on her gloves.  
“Whoever it is, they have an insane amount of magic,”she explained. “I don't need an enchanted ring to tell me that.”  
She didn't seem to catch the ironic twist to her using the word “insane” but Zadara chose not to point that out. Magic usually meant elves. And she was use to an air that crackled with the stuff, just waiting to be wielded. Spouts between the Altmer she'd encountered happened. They were savage, try as they may to pass as civilized. It was the pastime of the Isles, she guessed. Pretend you were refined while being the most animal thing in the room.   
“Should we stay and fight? Or move out?”  
Bishop didn't seem too keen on the first idea but he was looking at Falin. She was crouched over her pack, one glove on, the other in her hand.   
“If I can feel them, they can feel me,” she reasoned.   
She glanced at Zadara.  
“I'll pack up, continue on the road and encounter them. You and Bishop need to vanish into the woods. Head to Falkreath. We'll meet back up there.”  
“What if its Thalmor?” Zadara asked.  
Falin chuckled.  
“So what?”   
Zadara made to argue more but Falin merely tossed her a small bag of coins. Bishop had already started packing them up, striking camp with surprising speed. He hefted the majority of it onto his own shoulders as Falin did the same with only enough gear for herself. She was really trying to sell it.   
“Go,” she urged, giving Zadara a gentle push towards the thicker parts of the forest.   
“But-” Zadara began to object.  
Bishop didn't give her much choice, catching her arm and yanking her away now. Falin smiled at that before she turned her attention to the ground. The ground betrayed her charade, revealing that more than one person had camped there. She had no intention of letting them encounter her in her camp but she wanted to be certain, beyond a shred of doubt, that even if they had doubts about her they'd never quite find proof to justify it. She closed her eyes, focusing hard. Her magic was an easy thing to let loose in large quantities, letting it rip opponents off their feet and fling them away or press down on them. But for more exacting tasks, well, it was hard. But not impossible. Slowly, she watched the dirt around her move, covering their footprints. She didn't panic, knowing she could stomp around a bit to reproduce footprints that were all her. Certain that she had sufficiently covered their tracks, she drew her magic back, sighing with relief and satisfaction. She was getting better at control. And with her magic already awakened, well, she was ready for anything at this point. 

 

Okay she wasn't spying. Serana had been quick enough to initially avert her gaze upon entering the garden and discovering Miraak doing...gods knew what, shirtless and his broad back to her. However, he didn't seem to care, glancing over his shoulder briefly before shrugging and returning his attention to the sword he held. He moved with impressive grace and focus, going through a set of stances. Serana sat on the steps, now fully invested in watching him. He was muscled and scarred to boot and it was fascinating to watch how his body moved. Miraak was built like a Nord, bulky and strong and certainly a fine specimen of his kind. Serana smirked to herself a bit. There she went again, her thoughts almost parallel to Syra's. Only in regards to a different man. She had almost wrinkled her nose at what she knew Syra felt in Brynjolf's presence. It was a conflicting mix of attraction and denial, one she hadn't imagined would ever inflict itself upon her. And then, of course, she'd had the pleasure of Miraak's company. And some mornings, when she should've been tucked away, she had his attention. He seemed preoccupied at the moment and so she chose to busy herself watching him, admiring what she could see now that he wasn't in his usual armor. Her father would've been disappointed. He would have beheld Miraak, looked into eyes that bragged two different colors and he would have seen only a threat. He would've slain Miraak where he stood, regardless of Serana's input or not. Miraak was a king in his own right. And while Harkon had always held a position of power over his court, the power Miraak held would've swayed the court. They would look to Miraak and see a deadly grace the likes of which would attract them. If he ever discovered Miraak in his courtyard, in his garden, so close to the place where he laid his head, the backlash would be immense. More so if he got a glimpse of Serana mooning over the mortal man, simply because he'd shed a few layers. As if having her dad's meltdown in her head wasn't enough, her mind flashed to her mother. Serana's earliest memories were of a woman who'd been a dutiful wife, a powerful woman whose goals aligned with her husband's. And so they had been allies. And when their goals no longer aligned, well, her father instantly had a powerful enemy. Her mother would definitely lecture Serana on the importance of keeping her wits, as if she'd lost them. She had more than enough reasons to never let on that she saw Miraak as anything but a pretty piece of art to admire. She dragged herself from her thoughts, jumping out of her skin as she realized Miraak was no longer entertaining himself but was instead standing directly in front of her, his gaze drilling into her. She hadn't meant her reaction to be so physical but it was and he laughed aloud, the sound boisterous and rich, a balm for her nerves as they settled.   
“You need a bell,” she grouched instantly, trying to cover her reaction.   
Miraak sat beside her, chest still bare, smirking her way.  
“Perhaps you were so lost in your own head, you simply did not hear me.”  
“Vampire hearing,” Serana reminded him, tapping her ear.  
His smirked turned into a soft smile, marred only by his scar. Yet another scar she'd never know the origin. For all his stories, he kept his mouth shut when it came to intimate details of himself. He was silent in regards to his scars, his time under Hermaeus Mora and what Lilith referred to as his mistakes. It was a sore spot for him and she could see distinct rage when Lilith referred to his actions as that. Mistakes. He clearly didn't see his actions as such.  
“I've faced many opponents,” Miraak remarked. “Cocky about their advantages. Their overconfidence in talents and abilities is usually their downfall.”  
Serana rolled her eyes.   
“Don't lecture me,” she instructed. “Mortal.”  
Her tone was light when she said it. He may have been mortal but he felt like more. Like mortal wasn't the right term to describe him. Syra had felt that way too. Miraak chuckled, fixing her with a look that was hard to describe.  
“Mortal I may be but do recall I'm much older than you.”  
“Ah yes,” Serana chuckled. “Shall we move to the chairs, lest you damage your hip?”  
Miraak snorted.  
“For my age, I do believe I am in pretty impressive shape.”  
“Mhmm,” Serana agreed, before she could catch herself.  
Her eyes went wide as she realized what she'd done and she looked at him as he smirked her way.  
“As I thought. You were admiring me,” he called her out on. “Perhaps you liked what you saw then?”  
“You have to already know your muscles are … impressive.”  
Serana shook her head, as if she could shake away her mortification.  
“You served dragons,” Serana grouched. “Women must have admired you then.”  
“Indeed,” he agreed.  
His gaze was thoughtful now. And distant.   
“There were always women. Concubines,disciples. They would look at you in such a way that it made you feel as strong as a hundred men. Like-”  
“Like you can fight dragons and win?”  
Miraak's jaw clenched a bit, the same expression of shame and guilt crossing his face.  
“Yes,” he said, though his voice was low.   
Silence settled between them, silence that usually wasn't there. Silence she had created. Perhaps because she wanted him to look at her as more than someone to share stories of his peers with. Perhaps because she wanted to learn more about him, even if he glossed over his own fall.   
“I was arrogant back then,” he admitted after a moment.  
His gaze traveled upwards, towards the sky above that was beginning to streak with the first rays of dawn. Serana didn't bother checking. Something in her always knew dawn was at hand. And dusk.   
“I was arrogant for a long time. No more,” he declared.   
He chuckled, glancing at her again.  
“Syra is so often referred to as the Lost Dragonborn. Removed from time for 2 centuries to be reunited with her mother in this place. She is the Dragonborn who stopped Alduin. She is a hero and I am a lost legend.”  
He smirked bitterly.  
“Tell me then, who is truly the Lost Dragonborn?”

 

She was learning, or so she hoped. The Warriors kept their faces blank,watching her as she faced off with one of their own. It felt odd, using her left hand to fight, the sword in it around the same as Steinar's. It was familiar by now. She'd never been one to use a shield but another sword? Especially in the face of her past, in which she'd believed she'd never hold even one sword again. Yes, she could manage. She stepped back, narrowly avoiding her opponents sword. She lashed out, aggressively fighting for ground, one sword angled to provide cover as the other lashed out, slashing at the warrior she spared with. Battle was becoming her sustenance. She ached for it on nights when she'd rest, the only living thing here in a land made for the dead. A fact that the Hall's protector made a point to remind her of. He could not force her but he intoned it everyday. It marked her time in the realm. Despite her newfound battle lust, her skill was sadly lacking in her new way of fighting, evidence as the warrior before her surged forward, forcing her guard to break and elbowing her in the face. Syra's head snapped back and she felt her legs get swept out from under her. Hitting the ground, she got up just as fast, her face probably red with embarrassment but underneath that was a determination as well as a promise that it wouldn't happen again. The sound of wings disturbing the air meant this fight had attracted the attention of the dragons, the likes of which accompanied her where she went. They shifted their positions, having been silently observing beforehand. It probably did not sit well with some that she had defeated Alduin. She did not care.   
“Again,” she ordered, adjusting her grip on her blades, her body relaxing into her stance.  
One leg extended in front of her, the other her center, the one that would keep her balance. Her opponent smirked, shifting his shoulders just enough to give away his first move. Oh yes, she was getting better to have caught that. When he moved, so did she. He had bulk but she knew how to deal with that, their swords clashing. The force traveling through her swords. Her focus was absolute and she feinted right, kneeing her opponent in the gut before bringing the pommel of one sword up only to send it crashing into his head. The force would've killed a man, had the man before her not been dead already she would've been worried. He flopped to the ground, his weapons scattering and she stood over him, no doubt the blue trace of humanity in them replaced by a glowing reptilian slit.

 

Charm was her trade. Her father had instilled his own into his children. He was a merchant. And a good merchant was charming. Falin let a small, welcoming smile creep onto her face as she stared down the Thalmor Justicar marching his way towards her. He didn't look pleased. Then again, they never looked pleased. It seemed they had a perpetual frown on their faces, the Thalmor as a whole really. Or at least they did in regards to her. Although she couldn't imagine why. She was, after all, very charming. The repetitive thoughts almost made her laugh and that's what kept her smile genuine.  
“Well met,” she greeted the accosting Thalmor, careful to bring herself up close enough to him to show that she wasn't afraid of him.  
Her positioning did not go unnoticed by him and he was not happy at it. Falin tilted her head a bit, careful, always careful, to avoid looking too closely at him.   
“You interfere with official business of the Thalmor ambassador,” he snidely remarked.  
“Ah my apologies. I do know Lady Elenwen is a very busy elf,” she retorted, every word as close to hand picked as she could get.  
The Altmer before her sniffed in disdain.  
“What could you know of Lady Elenwen?” he dismissed her.  
“I so hoped she'd gotten my father's gifts. In a show of his support for the alliance between our two nations,” Falin continued, as if he hadn't spoken. “Surely with the war, certain... items are hard to procure in Skyrim nowadays.”  
She sighed then, careful to make it seem as though it was a long suffering one.  
“Unless my crew is slacking off while I'm out here working my ass off.”  
“Your crew?” the Justicar repeated, confusion in the hard lines of his golden skin.  
“Ah, yes,” Falin perked up then, further giving rise to the rumors that she could be ditsy no doubt.  
She grinned now, admittedly maniacally, at him.  
“The Queen's Ruby! Perhaps you've heard of it!”  
The look on his face. Oh how Falin wished she could capture it. She sent him a flirtatious smile.  
“I thought perhaps you'd like to join me there,” she said. “My captain's cabin is very...comfortable and roomy.”  
She showed teeth then, letting her green gaze drift to the side.  
“Or perhaps not as I've found something far more enticing,” she purred in appreciation of the shorter of the two guards accompanying the justicar.   
Those enticing eyes went wide, surprised at her brashness no doubt. Falin winked before turning her attention back to the Justicar. He was fuming silently. Whether at her slight or because he was sleeping with his guard, he was breathing harder, clearly upset but in the face of the fact that Falin outranked him,well, his anger was very much like that of an ant.  
“Give my best to the ambassador,” Falin urged. “I look forward to seeing her in the days to come.”  
She stepped around the justicar, fixing the guard with a lust filled look before she passed her as well and continued on her merry way. 

 

His shoulders ached. A result, no doubt, of not moving and stooping over such a low table. Ugh, and yep, his back ached too now that he straightened. He groaned as he cracked his back, flipping closed the ledger. Still in the red. But not as bad. He ignored the gazes turning his way, thieves all hopeful he'd bring good news. Their numbers were fiercely dwindling. They lost a good number of thieves to be to abandonment. The rest rotting in jail until they scraped in enough money to pay bail. A slow process, if they wanted to keep the fences happy and supplied as well as the thieves that lived in the Cistern. He needed a miracle, admittedly. The gold Lilith had tossed his way, siting it as payment for breaking into the Embassy, only going so far. He was grateful. His pride wouldn't let him take handouts. And it was a job he would've done free.  
“Where are we at?”  
Vex was instantly at his side, as always, curious and hopeful, though she hid it behind an abrasive tone and an expression that said she couldn't care less. When the exact opposite was true.  
“No where near safe,” Brynjolf replied. “Mercer cleared us out and we're working on borrowed credit.”  
Vex let out a breath, the sound harsh.  
“We should pull Ross back,” she suggested. “We don't have the funds to keep sending her.”  
“The mages are funding Ross at this point,” Brynjolf admitted. “Have been for months. She's making good coin sending back ingredients and materials she comes across.”  
He was a few steps ahead of her there. If Ross was pulled back to Skyrim, Vex would hook onto her, convince her to run jobs. Ross was good. Ross was resourceful. And it wasn't fair. She was free of walled cities and crowded jail cells, no doubt sprinting across great open plains and enjoying them with a zest that matched her zest for life in general. He wouldn't yank her away, not for selfish reasons. Guild be damned. Vex, frustrated, strode away from him, no doubt reporting back to Delvin. Brynjolf would grab a pint with the man later. Right now, he wanted to solitude and was granted it. Being Guild Master had certainly isolated him from those that had flocked to him, not wanting to deal with Mercer's constant bad mood. And now, he was Mercer. He hoped it wouldn't always be this way. His gaze landed on the statue of Nocturnal, his eyes hardening as a familiar voice echoed within.  
“I thought you love me,” he remarked to the goddess, if she was listening. “Is this punishment for not loving you back?”  
He waited. Honest to gods, he waited as if she would answer him. Or anyone would. He wasn't being picky when it came to help now. But no answer came.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A disclaimer that Bishop is not my character. He is property of Mara and the Skyrim Romance Mod

“We should've stayed with her.”  
He sighed, realizing she was, once again, back on this line of thinking. She'd alternated between fretting and sulking. Neither of which he paid much attention to except to express his annoyance. Loudly. So she knew he wasn't in agreement. And each time, she'd glare and start in on the alternative. It was an interesting way to pass the time all things considered. The inn was otherwise quiet and he had few doubts that the patrons were keen on hearing their conversation, given how they stared. Falkreath was small and most avoided a place with such a massive graveyard. Nord superstitions being what they were. Bishop lifted the pint to his lips, tipping back the last of his mead.  
“How's it taste?”  
The voice was whispered playfully in his ear, the proximity a shock and he jumped, the contents of his mug splashing down the front of him as his arms windmilled to no avail, falling off the wooden bench. Grumpily, he glowered up at Falin who smiled down at him.  
“Glad to see you waited for me to start drinking.”  
Her tone was dry and she sat on the bench as he climbed his way back to his feet, ignoring the snickers around them.   
“I'm glad you made it,” Zadara said.  
“The Thalmor are easy to handle. When you know what buttons to push,” Falin bragged.   
At least she had the good sense to keep her voice low or else she was simply incapable of multitasking, ,pulling a sheet of parchment out of her pocket ,along with a piece of charcoal, and spreading it on the table.   
“Did you sight see?” Bishop demanded. “Because I've made it to Falkreath in one day. And we made it here in only 3 hours.”  
He gestured to Zadara.   
“Give or take a few dozen bears,” Zadara grumbled.   
“And spriggan,” Bishop relented with a matching grumble.  
Falin laughed, her head bowed, scribbling a quick note.  
“If you must know, I didn't think they'd believe I was out here on my own,” she said. “The few times I haven't had Ashanti with me is because I've had a traveling companion. Something any Thalmor agent would know. I'm someone they like to keep tabs on.”  
Her smile dimmed a bit at the mention of her large cat, the change quick and brief before she perked back up, lifting her head away from her missive.  
“I went a bit off the path, led them into a handful of these bears you two seemed to have encountered. I do believe I efficiently lost them for the time being.”  
“Smart,” Bishop relented.  
“Thank you.”  
“So, what now?” Zadara asked.   
“Now I see a man about a trade agreement,” Falin replied. “And see about sending a courier out.”  
“And what should we do?” Bishop asked. “While you're off being...charming.”  
Falin made a face at him, recognizing his mockery for what it was.   
“Sit here and drink. Or find a room.”  
She got up, folding the letter in her hands, no doubt smudging the charcoal she'd used.   
“I must give in to Thaille's petty demands once more lest he come looking for me.”  
“We'll get a room,” Zadara said, loud enough that her words were caught by the barmaid as she passed.  
She nodded at Zadara, smiling. Falin glanced at her, studying her for a minute before backing off. She would leave them to handle their accommodations as she had much bigger things to focus on, leaving the inn. She stepped off the steps, glancing around for a guard. Typical that they'd all be stretched thin, as was the customs of war she'd learned. She could recall the Imperial City in perfect detail, the market the most heavily patrolled part of the city besides the Emperor's home, a result of the war as well. And while the guards still patrolled as best they could, it had still allowed there to be a flair up in crime, at least if her father's private guard was to be believed. She didn't bother with them honestly. As she turned, intent on heading for the Jarl's longhouse, she nearly crashed into the accosting courier who all but bore down on her.  
“Falin Oakenhollow?” he asked, loudly announcing her name for all present.  
“Yes?” she sighed, impatient.   
"I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver - your hands only," he informed her, handing over a letter decorated in fancy scrawl.   
She reached out quickly, catching his shirt as he turned to go, as if it was that simple.   
“Who sent this?” she demanded to know.  
“My apologies. The letter was handed to me by a guard from Solitude. He was acting on behalf of a lady of the city but didn't see it necessary to release her name to me.”  
His smile was sheepish and Falin released him, holding out her letter.  
“I hope you had further business in Solitude,” she said. “I need this delivered post haste to Thaille aboard the Queen's Ruby.”  
“The large war ship at the docks?” the courier gasped.  
'The very one,” Falin confirmed, not even bothering to correct him. “He'll be expecting it and he will pay you.”  
The courier took her letter, tucking it into the pack he carried before scampering away as fast as his thin legs would take him. Falin drew her attention to the letter in her hands, taking in the sickeningly sweet odor that had her flashing back to Vittoria's well decorated home. It was clearly the perfume her distant cousin wore with pride and Falin tore open the neat envelope with little regard, skipping the first few well scripted lines. With someone so obsessed with status and image, no doubt it was nothing but small talk and niceties. Of which Falin had no time nor any use for. Her eyes zeroed in on the carefully scrawled “Emperor” practically stamped in the middle of the letter and she found she had to backtrack a good three lines to fully comprehend what Vittoria was saying.   
“Dearest cousin,” she read to herself. “It would do me much honor to have you attend my engagement celebration. Blah blah blah. The Emperor has graciously provided funds for the event as a gift as he is unable to attend.”  
Falin let out a long suffering mix between a sigh and a shriek, no doubt drawing attention from passersby.   
“Oh Vittoria, just eat my entire ass,” Falin growled low at the letter, words she'd never say to her snobbish relative.   
No doubt this party had been months in the making, all since Vittoria's engagement. Her cousin was skilled, keeping it under wraps. If Falin did not attend, if neither her father nor mother did either, it would reflect badly on them. And she had let Falin traipse from her home, no indication that she intended to extend an invitation. A courier made the chances Falin would receive the invite that much slimmer. Oh, she was spitting mad. She did not have time for political maneuverings when she was trying to hunt down the Dark Brotherhood. And spread her father's agenda. And yet, her she was, clenching a letter that was a direct challenge. Glancing at the date, she sighed. She had a week. One week to get from Falkreath to Solitude. She took in a deep breath, closing her eyes, her mind aflutter with a dozen and one different thoughts and things she needed to do. Finally, she was calm, a clear idea of what exactly she needed to do. Setting her shoulders, she continued for the longhouse. 

 

She had to play this right, staring intently at the wooden door before her. Harkon was surprisingly crafty. Sometimes, more often than not really, she was almost sure he could see into her very soul and read every secret she had. But he seemed content to entertain her, her “whims” met with affirmation. And so Lilith stepped into the lion's den, easing her features into an impassive yet seductive expression as she approached the self titled vampire king.  
“My lord,” she greeted, making sure to bow a bit.   
He seemed to enjoy when she stroked his ego with these little acknowledgments. And the slight easing of his brow let her know that, yet again, her ploy had worked.   
“Lilith,” he purred, his voice holding a measure of power that she knew didn't compare to her own.  
Even still she let it wash over her, let herself appear to ease back as if she was cowering. He was truly a servant of Bal, relishing the submission she offered. Thankfully, he hadn't acted on it or else she would have had to melt his face off. That would certainly have put a damper on her and Serana's plans and effectively ended their charade.  
“I bid you good evening, Lord Harkon,” she hurried on before a flash of her usual fiery self could flair up in her eyes.  
She raised her eyes just enough, keeping them centered on his shoulder. Downcast just enough.  
“I do not wish to take up too much of your time as I know you have much to do.”  
She would've patted herself on the back right then and there if she could've. She'd practiced that line, slowly scraping the sarcasm from it with repetition, essentially brainwashing herself to believe it when she knew the man spent many a morning staring into his fire as he did now.   
“I am lacking a few ingredients I am not able to grow in my garden,” she informed him. “I've heard rumors of traders with these ingredients.”  
Harkon studied her, hard, his brow furrowing a bit.  
“And what would these ingredients do?” he inquired.   
“It will be most fun to see, won't it?” she asked, her smile playful.  
As if she enjoyed further torturing the wailing shades locked in the dark as much as the rest of them. As if the idea of feeding them mysterious herbs as if they were subjects to experiment on brought her pleasure. But she pretended, giving it her all and he bought it. She saw in how he relaxed, his body molding with his high backed chair.  
“Enjoy your trip,” he said, nodding at her, his way of granting permission.  
Lilith made sure to bow again, reminded herself not to run from his chambers at her fastest speed, instead leaving him as if it hurt to be away from him. When the exact opposite was true.

Serana sat in the boat, smirking just so at Miraak as he hauled it closer to shore.  
“I do believe you enjoy showing off,” she snarked at him and he smirked back.  
“I do faintly recall you confessing to enjoying my body,” he pointed out. “Why should I deny you such mundane pleasures?”  
“To further support your belief that I'm...oh what did you call me?”  
She bit her lip, as if she really was having a hard time recalling the nasty words they'd thrown back and forth the first few weeks they'd been in each others company. It hadn't been pretty. Of course, then Lilith had snapped and about torched them. Fire certainly put a damper on their hostilities.   
“A spoiled little princess,” Miraak reminded her.   
“Ah and now you're further spoiling me,” Serana remarked.   
She pulled her hood up, slouching just so in the boat. It was then, before he could continue their banter,that Lilith emerged. She hurried their way, throwing a hood over her own head, as she hurried down the steps. The many secret passages they'd discovered had certainly allowed them to move undisturbed. But for Lilith to play Arch Mage and pretend to be a socialite, well, they needed a few days. And Harkon would notice if his daughter and new toy were missing.   
“Is everything hidden?” Lilith inquired as soon as she was close.  
“As best I could manage,” Miraak replied.  
Gone was his humorous demeanor, replaced by complete seriousness. He helped Lilith into the boat where she faced Serana who fought hard not to sulk. Lilith looked unnerved, as she always seemed to in private moments.   
“What did he say?” Serana asked.  
Miraak pushed the boat away, hopping in last second, avoiding the water entirely as he settled in, an oar in each hand. The water wasn't too rough early in the morning, hence why they'd chosen to leave so early. It wasn't too pleasant for the two vampires but it meant they'd get some distance in case Harkon tried sending someone to follow them. Lilith seemed to be debating what to say. As if her words would somehow influence how Serana felt about her father. She knew what type of man he had been and the monster he had become. She knew she mattered little to him now that he discovered she didn't have the Elder Scroll. She also knew he searched for Dyre still and it made her smile, knowing he'd never find him. Not with all the places he was looking or the fact that Molag Bal had essentially turned from the whelp. It took the sting out of realizing her father cared nothing for her.   
“Let me guess then,” Serana suggested. “He was the same monster he always is, relishing in someone or something's suffering yet again?”  
She knew she was right even without Lilith confirming it.  
“Its simply the way of my father's court,” she declared with a shrug. “You get use to it.”  
Or else it destroys you.

The Keeper kept. It did not sit right that he was sent out again, off on some errand at the Night Mother's behest. He supposed that their dark matron knew best. And so he had allowed himself to be guided out of the Sanctuary and mounted a less conspicuous horse than the Listener's own mount, trotting meekly through the wilds. Madness made it hard to focus however and he found himself slipping frequently from his saddle or else his horse took control, heading astray of the path he needed to be one. And he fought hard to focus. Oh how he wanted to make his Mother proud. Sometimes, he could see past it all. He could feel the madness slipping in its grasp. And the whispers of sanity, for sanity whispered, it was quiet, they leaked into his mind through the cracks in his madness. And it was terrifying. For so long, he'd existed in the dark and mad, developing a sort of lust for it. There was freedom in never entertaining logic and all the trappings it presented. He needed that freedom, that fearlessness. He needed to rely on it as he watched the Listener piece together the remnants of the Brotherhood. She was the sanity, the sane one. The hand that tempered his mind when his thoughts ran wild and he ran with them. He could not and did not want to do that himself when he saw how she tried. Oh bother. He realized with a start that his horse had headed off the path, crossing into the snowy forest and losing the steady path. He reached down, yanking the reins back as he turned his horse away from the warm stables it sought and back towards Whiterun. He had an errand for the Listener and a task from the Night Mother. And he intended to do as Keepers do and keep it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bishop does not belong to me. He is the property of Mara and the Skyrim Romance Mod

"I considered it better to kill one woman than a different man every week.”  
To say the wagon driver laughed was an understatement. His body shook with the laughter that originated in his gut, boisterous in the sticky air of afternoon. Bishop opened his eyes, glancing ruefully at Falin who was perched behind the driver, whispering jokes in his ear and being...charming. He didn't find her so, pouring some water into his hand and smearing it on his face. Zadara, somehow, was still sound asleep, her head lulling against the wagon side as her feet stretched across, crossed and resting beside him.   
“Hey,” he said quietly, sprinkling some water on her.  
One of her hazel eyes slid open, glaring at him with malice and murderous intent.  
“Is this really an activity you want to engage in?” she inquired. “Poking a sleeping bear?”  
“Last I checked, you weren't a bear.”  
“I will maul you like one all the same.”  
Bishop snorted but leaned back, continuing the slow bake in the sun. It wasn't too bad now. While the plains outside Whiterun didn't have the abundance of trees that Falkreath and the surrounding territory did but at least it benefited from the cool mountain breezes. One of which ruffled his hair as he thought about it. Sighing his pleasure, he closed his eyes again. Why Falin had woken them up before the sun was a mystery to him. As was the odd temper she'd had. In fact, cracking wise with the driver was the only normal behavior he'd experienced from her in the last few hours.   
“How much further?” Bishop tossed at the driver, surprised when he was clearly heard over the laughter.  
The man turned to look at Bishop, giving him a look that Bishop did not appreciate nor did he care about. Clearly the creep was enjoying very much the attention a certain halfling minx was showering him with and wanted to pretend as though she wasn't traveling with a man that clearly could take him.   
“Not much longer now,” the driver sniffed.   
He turned back around.  
“You can see the city from here.”  
“I always loved Whiterun,” Falin declared.  
“You've been before?” Zadara asked, probably realizing she wasn't going to get any sleep.  
Her eyes were still closed, as if she was holding on to some dredge of hope that her curiosity would get the point.   
“Twice before,” Falin confirmed. “Both times with my father. We would come to trade. Whiterun's market was always bustling. It was so alive. It reminded me of the Imperial Market District.”  
It reminded her of home, she meant to say. Zadara's eyes opened and she eyed the woman's backside, her attention solely on the approaching city. She hadn't asked why they'd changed course. Why instead of Riften, they'd abruptly changed course and headed to Whiterun. She kept her mouth shut and threw up her hood now, not sure what awaited them. But she knew the Thalmor. She'd been taught how ruthless they could be in all they did. Her father had warned her, over and over again. Because as she got older, as she became more woman than child, he knew excuses he'd used to guard her as a child would no longer prevail. No longer could he argue that she needed sleep, that she needed to focus on studies or simply that she was his charge. Zadara smiled a bit at that, memories so bittersweet that they made her miss him all the more. She hoped he was safe, that he had been told sweet lies that she'd made it safely to Skyrim and had been delivered there on a boat of luxury rather than the sty her abductors had called a ship. He had to think she was enjoying a life of leisure until he could send for her back. Or at least until she could return. Because she'd always been safer at home.   
“Hey, look! A giant!”  
Falin's excitement brought her back and she glanced at the woman who was standing in the wagon now, waving excitedly at what was indeed a towering giant.  
“Please don't attract his attention,” the driver begged, snapping the reins, his horse picking up his pace a bit.  
There was clear concern in his voice and a hint of fear. It seemed he was finally cluing into the madness that was Falin. Zadara grinned, feeling no pity for the slime ball. She'd noticed him eyeing her, namely her breasts when he'd helped her into the wagon, something done despite her insistence that she didn't need help. At least in Falin, he'd bitten off more than he could chew. And she so enjoyed that he was suffering for it. Of course, the faster pace had Falin falling, landing solidly in Bishop's lap. He made a face which she ignored, grinning his way as she settled comfortably on him.   
“Are you going to tell us why we're suddenly headed to Whiterun?” Zadara asked, distracting Falin from her latest endeavor to mess with Bishop.   
“I am so glad you asked,” Falin said in a tone that revealed quite the opposite.  
She sounded pissed but she was trying her hardest to put a fun tone to her rage. Zadara grinned, unable to bite it back. Falin made a face at her, sliding out of Bishop's lap and finding her way into Zadara's. And honestly, the redguard didn't care. She was quickly becoming aware that Falin enjoyed physical contact. Probably even thrived on it. And while she was childish most times about it, case in point being her disregard for Bishop's annoyance, it was a rather endearing trait. It helped that Falin felt like she weighed nothing.   
“This bitchy cousin of mine sent me a very courteous letter. A political move no doubt. As I'm the only one of my family currently in Skyrim, the duty of representing us falls to me.”  
“Your family is doomed,” Bishop mumbled.   
Zadara nudged him in warning and he shut up.   
“If I don't go, it won't look good. People already like talking about us.”  
“You mean you,” Bishop clarified.  
Falin let out a weary sigh, rolling her eyes.  
“Yes, me. And talk about me I can handle. I have a taste for the finer things in life which extends to people. So the people I sleep with often have just as much reason, if not more, to not talk about it. Heck, my mother has tea with some of the ladies I've shared the night with and that's more than enough reason for them to keep quiet. Denying her access to their homes would be an insult to my father and that means she is dangerously close to what they hold dear.”  
“Their husbands?” Zadara guessed.  
“Their fortunes,” Falin corrected.  
“You're very manipulative,” Bishop observed in disdain.  
“You've learned to survive here in the wilds,” Falin reminded him. “I've learned to survive amongst nobility. What you don't grasp is that there is little difference between a matriarch and a mother bear.”  
“She has a point,” Zadara assured him. “Nobles make a lot of noise and like to throw their weight around. But at the end of the day, they're nothing more than savage beasts vying for survival and trying to protect what they have.”  
Bishop rolled his eyes at both of them, crossing his arms over his chest.  
“We've finally gotten to a point where the nobles are listening to us,” Falin said. “Snubbing one, especially here in Skyrim where the Empire's power is in limbo, is essentially social suicide. So, while nothing would please me more than to not go, I have to attend dear Cousin Bitch's engagement party.”  
Falin made a nasty face, nostrils flaring a bit.  
“Oh gods and probably the damn wedding.”  
“Ok, but why are we in Whiterun?” Bishop demanded to know.  
“Because I need to know if Ashanti is really okay. And I need a dress. And only one scum sucking man specializes in both,” Falin finally explained. “And that man resides in Whiterun.”  
She grinned, her mood vastly improved whether because she'd gotten to bash her shallow cousin or because the man in question just inspired the mood change. Zadara didn't know or care why. Merely the chilling grin on that impish face inspired a mild sense of foreboding. 

 

She'd always loved the Haafingar Hold. The land was rich and if she pretended hard enough, she could imagine it was peaceful. Home to Skyrim's capital, there were rarely bandits and so traveling by foot, she got to enjoy the peace. Even if it was marred by the unpleasant air generated by her companions. Her green gaze traveled between Serana and Miraak. Sure, she pretended to be blissfully unaware that Miraak avoided her half the time and the other half of the time he distanced himself mentally, grey rocking her like a champ. She also never acknowledged that Serana kept her distance as well. But the fact that she was just as trapped as they were, in a world where she didn't belong, pretending to be a monster that she wasn't, well, she felt isolated by the two who were suppose to be her allies. But had seem to have forgotten. So, yes, vampire or no, she was excited for Solitude and for the attentive excitement of people who thought she was a marvel. Not the best alternative but it would be nice to pretend, even if for a few nights, that she wasn't playing for keeps.  
“I missed this fresh air,” she remarked, trying to strike up a conversation.   
“Is it wrong that I'm use to it?” Miraak asked. “After so long in what was basically a stuffy library, I barely notice it.”  
Lilith looked at Serana who smiled mildly.  
“It helps,” she admitted. “Reminds me sometimes that I'm not trapped in a coffin anymore.”  
“About that.”  
Lilith hated ruining the pleasant atmosphere around them but she had her questions.  
“How did Dyre know how to get in there?” she asked.   
“I wouldn't put it past Amarenthine to have told him. If she really pulls as many strings as she claims, what's a few more?”  
“I can see why Mora recruited her,” Lilith admitted. “He doesn't relish chaos but he can manipulate most situations to his advantage using Amarenthine's abilities. In a way, he could create a new world order.”  
“No doubt he's not too happy that both remaining dragonborn are outside his reach,” Miraak added.  
“He can't be happy with her failure,” Serana pointed out.   
“But he won't throw her away,” Miraak reminded her. “She's still useful.”  
Serana sighed.  
“Wouldn't it be much easier to capture Mora and get the answers from him?” she demanded of Lilith.  
“Yes, let the abomination spawn of a Divine and a Daedric Prince capture one of her 'betters'. That will go over so well,” she said. “Especially if we succeed.”  
She shook her head.  
“It may be easier than chasing the trail of a paranoid vampire and my sister but its not ideal.”  
“Says the one who spends more time making eyes at my father than she does wading through ruins.”  
“You think I like even being near your father?” Lilith demanded.  
She paused, reaching out and grabbing Serana's elbow, forcing her to stop as well. Serana sighed again but faced Lilith.   
“Trust me, I know evil,” Lilith declared. “I've seen countless monsters, too many to count who wear a human face but are the furthest thing from it. I've seen what harm they can do if not kept in check, if their destructive tendencies weren't diverted. Your father is no different.”  
She pointed a finger in Serana's face, her own made of stone as she spoke her next words.  
“Skyrim is my home. I have people here that I care about. Your father threatens them. Half the time, he doesn't even care to focus on his end game and strays outwards, threatening innocent people that I am suppose to be protecting. So if I'm making eyes at him, its to distract him. But don't you for one second believe I enjoy anything about him,” she hissed in a dangerous tone.   
Serana made a face but nodded, unsure what else to do. Lilith released her then and stomped ahead, no longer in any mood to appreciate the scenery around her. Serana watched her go, crossing her arms.  
“Y'know,” Miraak remarked, his head tilted close to hers.  
His voice was lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.  
“Back in my day, court intrigue was reserved for the court.”  
Serana couldn't help the smirk that statement brought and she playfully swatted at his chest.  
“Get with the times, old man.”

 

His irritation rose as soon as that door swung open, slamming into the wall, the force rocking the items that lined his walls. At first, he assumed it was his assistant. The insignificant whelp was specifically kept out of his shop for that very reason. He was not disappointed to find it wasn't, his lips curving into a dark smile as his visitor came forward.  
“As I live and breathe,” he chuckled. “If it isn't the easiest woman in the Imperial City!”  
“Its been much too long, sleaziest man in the world,” Falin retorted as she strode in.   
“Did you get rid of that hat?” he asked.  
He briefly noticed her companions that shuffled in behind her, the male closing the door securely behind them.   
“I love that hat, I'll have you know,” Falin said,lifting her chin in indignation and he laughed.  
Rolling her eyes, the little whelp turned to her companions.  
“Bishop, Zadara, this is Belethor. Belethor, Bishop and Zadara,” she said. “He's a bit shady but so fun.”  
She grinned.  
“He taught me a lot of the naughty things I know!”  
“Thanks for that,” Bishop deadpanned, not looking very grateful.   
Belethor shrugged at that, not surprised. He was use to grumps in Skyrim. Sure beat prudes everywhere else. His gaze was drawn to Zadara, her hand surveying an amulet of Mara  
“Nice amulet, isn't it?” he asked, startling her.  
She seemed surprised to be addressed, setting down the necklace hurriedly.  
“Everything's for sale, my friend. Everything. If I had a sister, I'd sell her in a second,” he continued.  
“See? Sleazy,” Falin bragged, seeming proud to be right.   
Zadara crossed her arms.  
“It is a nice necklace but I'm not in the market for jewelry right now.”  
Belethor shrugged, more in a 'suit yourself' kind of way then anything, leaving his counter behind to join his guests. Falin sat in a chair, crossing her legs. Which usually meant she had business to discuss. Belethor settled in the chair beside her. Normally, he'd wait. Have his fun. Of course, normally Falin showed up after business hours.  
“Alright then, what do you need?” he asked.   
Falin smiled at him before jerking her thumb at Bishop, where he was nodding off against the door jam, as far away as he could possibly be.   
“His wolf got poached,” she informed Belethor. “And I have a sinking suspicion that someone took Ashanti. And I want her back.”  
“And how does that concern me?” the Breton merchant asked coyly.  
Falin's eyes darkened just a bit, a ferocious fire in them that he knew all too well. He bit back his grin however. He knew better to poke that beast.  
“You keep your ear to the ground, Belethor. Bandits and scavengers are your friends when it comes to obtaining goods otherwise rationed. Especially during times of war.”  
“And?”  
“And bandits like to brag. So tell me what you've heard.”  
“What if I've heard nothing?”  
Okay, he'd poked her. He only had a second ,and barely that, to register the dangerous flash in her eyes before he was rag-dolled out of his chair, his body hitting the wall, pinned there, inches off the floor by, an unseen force. Falin, to her credit, hadn't moved, her gaze centered on Belethor. A slow and dark smile crossed her face. He grinned back at her.  
“Alright, alright. I get it.”  
Falin lifted her chin, part of her clearly not believing him but slowly he was lowered to the ground. He made a show of straightening his clothes, sniffing at her barbaric abuse of magic. She didn't seem to care but Zadara standing just behind her seemed surprised. Even Bishop was at attention, no longer leaning against the door jam, his body ready to move. Even if it didn't know where it was going. Belethor picked up his fallen chair, reclaiming it. Taking his time all the while and further stirring her anger. Heh, as fun as she was in her crazy everyday cheer, her temper brought out a much darker persona, one that was as fascinatingly intoxicating as it was dangerous. He'd seen it once, at its peak. And since then, he'd only gotten glimpses, never fully getting to push her without outside interference stopping him.   
“I've had a few unsavories in here. No one bragging about a lioness or a wolf.”  
He glanced Bishop's way.  
“But there just so happens to be a den of idiots nearby. They breed animals to fight. Pit dogs and what not. They also deal in flesh.”  
Hurriedly, he looked Falin's way. Her face had morphed into a mix of rage and disgust and he relished it.   
“Why are you telling us this?”   
Zadara's voice was firm and she clearly noticed the effect his words were having on Falin. Didn't seem to appreciate it either, glaring harshly at Belethor as well. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, one Zadara clearly didn't buy but she was willing to let him continue, her hand finding a place on Falin's shoulder,offering security. Surprisingly, Falin glanced at her hand, settling a bit, some of the darkness disappearing in her eyes. Pity.  
“While much of my merchandise comes from questionable sources,” Belethor acknowledged. “I've worked out a deal with a fellow in Rorikstead. I send him items, he enchants them if he can. And I sell them.”  
“For much more than they're worth, I'm sure,” Zadara remarked, catching onto his trade secret.  
He smiled but didn't remark on that comment.  
“He had a young student. Little whelp of a girl named Sissel. Sweet kid, he claims. Only her papa isn't winning any prizes,” Belethor continued. “He sold her to some passing slavers. Rumor has it, they're selling her at one of the pit fights. Or throwing her in the pit themselves. Not quite sure which to be honest.”  
“And?” Bishop prompted.  
“And he won't keep supplying you if you don't save her,” Falin guessed. “Because undoubtedly, he's not a sleaze bag.”  
“I just don't have the cash to buy her,” Belethor defended himself.  
“Translation, you don't want to spend that much cash to buy her,” Falin corrected him. “Hence why you dangle slave trading in front of me.”  
“And pit fighting,” Belethor added. “But that's mostly because I know you love it.”  
He leaned forward.  
“You must admit, a part of you misses your life before all this luxury.”  
Falin leaned forward as well, Zadara's hold on her breaking and it was an instant change. Those green eyes turned to ice, promising the death and destruction someone like her could reign down on him. She smiled and it was cold, chilling him instantly.   
“Tell me where this pit is. I'll handle them. I'll find my lioness and you best make yourself scarce for the time being. Because I don't appreciate your implications.”   
Damn if the coolness of her tone didn't have the potential to freeze his blazing fire beside them. But he backed off, backing away, moving to do her bidding since he knew what was good for him. 

 

So real. The feel of pearls at her throat, moved with teeth and followed by a hungry kiss on her throat that tickled, making her laugh. She rolled away or tried, her attempt to flee stopped by strong arms and she opened her eyes, turning around in those arms, pressing her lips against the Nord she loved. Her legs weaved between his, the sheets already twisted beyond saving. She drew back and stared into eyes so blue and light that sometimes they hurt to look at.  
“Arnan,” she whispered, loving how it felt to say his name.  
She loved how it rolled off her tongue, how it sounded and especially the man that name belonged to. He grinned, that devilish grin that promised good things. The one that he often fought to suppress at time when she would say his name. She curled against him, enjoying his warmth and he cuddled her as he always did. She loved this time, their normal morning routine, wrapped in each other for a few precious moments before they either emerged for the day. Or their kids ran into the room excitedly jumping for the day.   
“Mmm, we should get up,” Arnan said and she could feel the vibrations his words caused, curled as she was against his neck.  
“Why?” she mumbled.  
She breathed in the familiar scent of him, the hint of fresh grass that he usually smelled like. She loved it, loved that he always smelled clean. Probably for her. Which made her love him all the more.   
“Syra wants to go riding,” he replied. “And to see Lucien no doubt. She adores him.”  
“He adores her,” Hekth murmured. “She's so eager to be an assassin.”  
“Perhaps she got all of Dyre's will then. He seems less and less interested in the family trade.”  
She meant to reply. Meant to speak but it came rushing back in horrific detail. Blood and corpses and pain, both physical and emotional, the worst the feeling of her heart being ripped out and stomped on. And she woke up, her body rising from the depths of her blankets. Her bed was empty, the other side still neat, as it always was. Why she'd insisted on keeping the bigger bed, she didn't know. It reminded her too much of what she didn't have. She was alone. She ran a hand over her face, trying to settle herself but shaking nonetheless. Memories were easier to block when she was awake, able to pretend that she felt nothing but a sense of loyalty to the Night Mother and Sithis. When she really and truly felt alone and empty. Laying on her bedside table,a reckless mistake really, sat the necklace that would serve as payment. She didn't quite trust her new Brotherhood fully. She still had a lot of unknowns in her ranks. And the amulet in question would make a very impressive and tantalizing prize. Stealing it would deprive the assassins of payment and hope while fattening the purse of one sticky fingered bandit should they sink so low. She drew the amulet into her hand, clenching it tight and staring at it. She needed to head to Riften. Needed to have it appraised and see if perhaps someone in the Thieves Guild could sell it. Who was she kidding? Brynjolf ran that circus now and if she came to him, regardless of the favor, he wouldn't have let her down. He was as bad as she was, missing someone but pretending his hardest that he didn't. She worried about him sometimes. Worried for her daughter as well, gone off doing Sithis knows what with what had to be an army of dragons. Her mind went to her dream and to those memories. Mornings spent on horseback, trekking to see Lucien Lachance or merely riding across the vast expanse of Cyrodiil, enjoying what had once been a happy little family. She smiled, just a bit. Arnan was gone and Dyre was a monster. But Syra, she was a hero. Somehow, it made it better, made her story better. A baby not meant to survive, too small and too weak. A baby that hadn't uttered a single cry as she was pushed into the world, shaking and clearly upset but silent. How wonderful to think she'd gone from that to the slayer of the World Eater. A legend. Hekth couldn't help the smile on her face and she rose from her bed, dressing hurriedly both to avoid the chill and because she was suddenly filled with renewed energy. She lifted the amulet over her head, settling it around her neck. She knew the sun was out and didn't care, wrapping her hair and head in her cowl to provide moderate protection before striding through the Sanctuary's living quarters. It kept her going, knowing her daughter's fate, knowing her daughter was a hero and was alive. It was certainly more comforting than the unknown and she had faced that before, had she not? Now she'd have to just reassure Brynjolf of that. A task easier said then done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. the joke Falin tells in the beginning is as such: A Dark Elf man killed his wife after catching her making love with another man. When the magistrate asked him why he killed her instead of her lover, the man replied, "I considered it better to kill one woman than a different man every week."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bishop is the property of Mara and the Skyrim Romance Mod.

“Slavers, bandits and gamblers,” Bishop checked off.   
“Don't forget drunkards,” Zadara added between bites of her stew.   
She cast a surprised glance at Falin.  
“You were right. This is good.”  
“Told you,” Falin gloated.  
She was back to her usual cheerful self, jokes aplenty and the borderline childish behavior she bounced with firmly back as she'd suggested they head to the Bannered Mare for food. And of course, she'd oozed recommendations, settling on beef stew for herself. Zadara herself had gotten vegetable stew, same as Bishop. He, however, wasn't distracted by food, choosing instead to focus on the task at hand which was a cave rife with some of Skyrim's worst.  
“We have to be careful going in,” Bishop insisted. “Even if Karnwyr and Ashanti are there,the chances that they'll be able to help us get out are slim.”  
“Mhm,” Falin mumbled, acknowledging and ignoring him at the same time.  
Zadara didn't miss Falin slowly switching out her empty bowl for his full one, a fact that went unnoticed by Bishop. He really had a one track mind.   
“We need a plan of action. Maybe a disguise to get us in? Or a charade?”  
He looked to Zadara for consultation.  
“Any ideas?”  
“A warm bath, maybe a nap?” she joked and he made a face at her.  
She grinned back.  
“Alright,alright. Its a pit fight not a grand ball. We could just walk in as patrons there for a pint and to watch people beat the crap out of each other,” she pointed out.  
“Nah,” Falin shot her down. “It is a good ruse but it wouldn't give us enough access to the fighters. No way to get to Sissel.”  
She went back to Bishop's stew, stirring the film off the top with her spoon before bringing it to her lips.   
“Ok, well do you have any ideas?” Bishop demanded, still completely oblivious to the pinched meal.  
“Yep,” Falin replied.   
She licked her spoon again.  
“Pit fighters are merchandise that makes more money bruised and beaten up. Meanwhile, slaves are merchandise you want in as nearly flawless condition as you can manage. Bruises and scars ruin the value for most. As pit fighters tend to be aggressive, you keep the two apart as much as possible,” she informed them matter of factually. “So, if these slavers are smart, they'll have the two split up.”  
She glanced up at them now and away from Bishop's stew.  
“So, we go in with a pit fighter, a slave and a seller,” she said, shrugging. “Simple and it means we cover all our bases.”  
Bishop gaped at her.  
“You're smart when you want to be,” he remarked.   
“Slaves and pit fighting are worlds I'm depressingly familiar with,” Falin retorted.   
Bishop shrugged in response, finally picking up his spoon and going for his stew, just then discovering it was gone. He sighed, glaring at Falin who stared back, face devoid of a reaction though she lifted yet another spoonful of stew to her mouth, slurping loudly.   
“Really?” he asked.   
“It was getting cold. I couldn't in good conscience allow good stew to go to waste.”  
Bishop said nothing, reaching across the table and taking his stew back. Falin pouted a bit but switched to her bread, ripping it into small pieces.  
“So,” Zadara said, now that the food situation was handled. “Who gets to play slave and who gets to play fighter?”

 

She use to love reading. It was something of a hobby, if she was allowed to have those. She still did what she was suppose to but in between guiding heroes to their paths or weaving events together in line with what was fated, she'd sit and enjoy passages written by mortals, relishing the creativity they possessed. It was a habit, a hunger, that she was allowed and had it interfered with her duties, well, no doubt finding the occasional book would cease. She had to read slow as the books appeared sporadically. If she read too fast, she could go decades without another. Too slow and she could hoard her books, devouring them at her own pace. Until she ran out. Books fed a hunger that, at first,she didn't know existed. A loneliness she escaped because of inked words printed on pages, other worlds or better times, adventures she could engross herself with and pretend that she wasn't as lonely as she truly was. Darus had made that all better as well. Disgusted at the course her mind had taken, she rose, not meaning to but not caring that she disturbed a stack of books. Once upon a time, she would've hated the chaos the strewn books created. She would've hurriedly straightened them before rushing off. Now she did not. Now she knew how good causing chaos felt and knocked over more stacks, pushing some right off the shelves. Papers fluttered all around her and she kicked them back up when they landed. She was mad and the brief trip she took into destructive helped. It helped her forget Lilith, helped soothe the burn of her failure as well. Panting, she stood amongst strewn books, gazing at the mess. Only for the damn thing to begin cleaning itself up, at Mora's bidding no doubt. He had trapped her here, in his forsaken library, leaving her with the echoing summons of her father as he sought her out. And she heard every one, heard the concern he felt that drove his summons across the eons. All of which she was unable to respond to. Because Mora forbade her too. Because she had failed him, let his prizes get away. And so she had to suffer. That he wouldn't let her tear his realm apart stung. Despite the less than ideal end result, had she not succeeded every other task he'd given her? Ugh thinking on it irked her more and she hurried away from the slowly disappearing mess, trying to find some peace. Which was impossible but burning energy helped. Better than wallowing on failure, entertaining anger or continuing her plotting, all of which her Master would be hesitant to assist her in since the last had failed. And that one had been stretched across centuries. No, she'd need to do more planning, weave more plots. Possibly trespass on the realms of other Princes. And none of it concerned her. She'd do whatever it took to end Lilith and redeem herself. If only to reclaim her freedom.

 

“Who let a bard in?”  
He was basically a father, scolding children and trying to wrangle them. Or at least that was how it felt. He glanced over his shoulder, making certain the less than all there bard was really leaving. The man had already run back twice and started strumming and Brynjolf would be damned if he was going to let him make it for a third time. He hopefully shielded the grinning faces that had been encouraging the mad man. What they saw as funny he saw as distracting.   
“Let the bard be, Bryn,” Delvin lightly scolded. “We could stand a bit of cheer around here.”  
He wasn't wrong. Gods, the Cistern was becoming more and more of a ghost town with each passing day. Rather than hoarding their dwindling coin stashes, thieves were relinquishing coins to different bars to drink away the depression. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do. He sighed, throwing up his hands and, barely acknowledging Delvin, he headed for his desk, shutting the hidden door to the wardrobe. He ran a hand over his face, barely acknowledging the thieves that lounged on their beds. His mind was busy with figures. He could sell Goldenglow. The money would be substantial. Would grease enough palms to bail out their locked up thieves and fund at least one decent job. One desperate measure to ensure they could pull themselves up by their boot straps. Of course, selling Goldenglow would sour their relationship with Maven, probably irrevocably. And damn if she wasn't the only thing standing between the Cistern and the city guard.  
“You're very distracted.”  
The smooth and low voice cut through his thoughts easily. He startled a bit as he realized Hekth was beside him, perfectly in step with him. Even hidden beneath layers of black and red, he'd recognize just her presence anywhere.   
“Its not a good state of mind to have,” she scolded him. “Much of thievery involves focus.”  
“Luckily then that I'm the idiot in charge rather than a thief in the field anymore then,” he said.  
She sniffed at him.  
“Age is no excuse to allow your instincts and skills to dull.”  
“Says the ageless vampire assassin,” Brynjolf snarked playfully.   
Beneath that cowl, he knew she was grinning but she gave him a smack upside his head, the chastising gentle. Even still, he rubbed his head, as if it hurt.  
“Well Hekth, you never visit merely to lecture me. So what can I do for you?”  
She tugged her cowl off, smoothing her hair. Without the extra draping fabric, he could see the glistening chain beneath her uniform and she looped her finger beneath it, producing the full amulet. Brynjolf let out a low whistle. He was rubbish when it came to appraising. Usually if something was worth stealing, he took it. Basic stuff ,however, like gems and coin. Gold. But even with his basic grasp of worth, he could tell the amulet was going to bring her a lump sum.   
“This was given to me as an advance on a job the Brotherhood will be doing. I need an appraisal and a fence. And who better than you?” she asked.  
Brynjolf chuckled.  
“Ah, Hekth. As much as I'd love to brag, I can't determine that pretty trinket's worth for you even if I wanted to. However, Delvin is another story.”  
“Fantastic,” Hekth said, grinning.  
She tucked the amulet back, a sure sign that now that she had a direction, she was going to take a break. And he welcomed it, back at his desk now but not wanting to get to work. Hekth was a perfect distraction.  
“So, is Dyre still-”  
“Alive?” she cut in, already knowing where he was going with that question. “He is.”  
Brynjolf bit his lip, forcing himself not grind his teeth. He didn't try hard enough. Hekth let out a deep sigh.  
“Brynjolf, he is the remnants of my son. And besides, I know he has more he can reveal. I don't want to lose that knowledge.”  
“He is your son. That's why you won't kill him,” Brynjolf interrupted.  
“If you understand that, why don't you look at me when you speak?” Hekth asked.  
He honestly hadn't realized he'd looked away but found his vision was now focused on the ledger spread wide on his desk. It was automatic. He'd never forget it, Dyre. Because he was simply an it. He shuddered some days, recalling Ross's wrist caught between Dyre's hands, a sick joy on that monstrous face before he snapped her wrist. He closed his eyes sometimes at night and he saw that play out. He saw Syra's pain. He felt Hekth's or the ghost of hers anyway. He wasn't a victim but it frustrated him that he didn't know how to help those that had been or if they even wanted or needed his help. And the whole thing made him feel angry and helpless. Feelings he didn't like. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at Hekth.   
“He's not giving you answers, is he?” he asked.   
“No,” Hekth replied.   
She made a face, the expression a mix of disgust and annoyance.  
“He likes to taunt me rather. Likes to rub in the things he's done. The people he's tainted. His father, me, Windhelm-”  
Syra. Her name was there but Hekth did not say it, falling silent instead. As if he wouldn't notice. Gone was the banter they usually fell into, the mood soured. By Dyre. Ah, another thing he'd tainted.  
“Do you think,” Brynjolf asked, genuinely curious. “That he'd talk to me?”

 

It was decided. Zadara wanted to cross her arms, fend off Falin in some way but had already had her hands swatted away as the halfling fiddled with her bust, arranging it in a 'tempting manner' as she put it. She and Falin had different body sizes, where Falin had more of a shapely derriere compared to Zadara and so the tight leather armor Falin wore had needed some adjustments to accommodate Zadara. She'd never seen armor with so many buckles and straps and never wanted to again honestly. Bishop grouched inches away, his back to them, no doubt glaring at the wall. He had proclaimed that he felt naked in his tattered robes, assigned the slave role unanimously. And when pressed for why, he found no fault with the logic Falin presented as to why, stating that his sour disposition wouldn't draw in the slave traders or owners. He'd scare them off. Arguing for the role of fighter wouldn't do either. It was a role better for Falin, with her marks being obvious as they were. Her master's death had been a source of gossip in the criminal underground for years. He was a legend, his methods marveled at. Including the unique tattoos he'd brand his slaves with. That one of his slaves was still a slave or a slave owner made little to no sense. That one was a pit fighter? It was an easier story to sell. Hence Falin winning the pit fighter role. However, no one seemed satisfied in their roles.  
“There,” Falin crowed stepping back. “I'd hit on you!”  
“You did the first time we met,” Zadara pointed out.  
Falin grinned.  
“Fair point,” she relented.   
Her green eyes darkened a bit as she tilted her head, gazing at Zadara.  
“But maybe I would've been more successful.”  
Her grin returned and she backed off.  
“Women who generally own slaves, in my own experience, tend to want them because their husbands are terrible in bed. They want the wealth but also the satisfaction.”  
She flopped down on the bed beside Bishop.  
“What do their husbands think of that?” he asked.  
Falin snorted.  
“They'll never admit that their wife needs a slave to achieve pleasure. Its humiliating. The Imperial City is a naughty cesspool,” she explained.  
Her hands went to her necklace clasp, the intricate curtain of gold slipping away, revealing a matching band to the ones that decorated her wrists. Zadara knew to expect it but she couldn't help but stare. It was weird how fast she'd normalized Falin wearing practically nothing in terms of armor and yet couldn't help but feel uncomfortable seeing her without that dash of gold. Her discomfort rose tenfold when the halfling stood, moving to wrap said necklace around Zadara herself. Zadara stepped back, surprised.  
“What are you doing?” she asked.  
Falin gave her a dry smile.  
“My armor is not going to be enough to convince people you own a pit fighter or a slave. Especially prizes like myself and grumpy over there.”  
She shook the necklace teasingly.  
“This will.”  
Zadara couldn't find any way to combat that logic, allowing Falin to secure the necklace around her neck, surprised at the weight, conveying that surprise well if the smile Falin gave her was any indication. She moved away and Zadara closed her eyes, adjusting to the weight she felt around her neck now.   
“Are you two ready?” he demanded.   
“As ready as we'll ever be,” Falin replied as she slid five of the near countless small knives that had come from her armor into her secondhand boots, making a face as she stomped them into place.  
Satisfied in her success, she gestured to the door.  
“Alright!”  
She clapped her hands.  
“Shall we go?”

 

Lilith enjoyed being out of the leathered armor that displayed a generous amount of cleavage, something she'd rather have kept covered amongst Harkon's underlings. However, virtue would've seemed out of place amongst the vampires and Serana's bastardization of the vampiric armor she'd crafted for Lilith. Accomplished mage she may be, blacksmith she was not. Clean and comfortable, Lilith settled on her bed, pointedly ignoring Serana and Miraak, the latter of which was munching happily on food prepared by someone else for once. The servants had been bending over backwards to accommodate the Arch Mage and her attendants and Lilith wasn't going to complain. She, instead, channeled her energy into writing a few letters, responding to some of the other letters she'd neglected in preparation for the trip, albeit short, to Solitude. A knock on the door drew her attention and she looked to Miraak. He was watching the door, suspicious, clearly not expecting any servants bringing anymore food. She didn't bother looking at Serana.  
“Enter,” she called, her tone taking on a note of authority.  
The door creaked open and her mood improved dramatically as she recognized   
“Melaran!” she greeted. “Oh how long has it been?”  
“Far too long, Arch Mage,” he responded in turn, bowing just slightly.  
He smiled her way, the expression questionable. She never quite knew how to define her relationship with the man but it was one of mutual respect, given how often he consulted her for information on his exploration into elven weaponry. As his master commanded.  
“Come for the wedding?” he guessed of the Arch Mage.  
“As if I had much choice,” she said. “Though why she's having the engagement party so late-”  
She trailed off, leaving her implications open for interpretation. This was political maneuvering she could enjoy. It wasn't life or death, merely political play. It was fun. And she could do it with a smile. Melaran did not rise to her bait, choosing instead to take a sly path.  
“I've been hearing some...interesting talk of you Arch Mage,” he remarked.  
He leaned closer, as if sharing a secret.  
“Rumors you were dead spread like wildfire for a while.”  
“I am aware,” Lilith said with a nod, neither confirming or denying the rumors. “Though as you can see, I am well and in health.”  
She extended her arms, showing off her fluttering robe sleeves, not to mention her impressive figure. Proof, above all, she was in one piece. She hoped this display was proving to Serana exactly why she needed to show her face.  
“Any other rumors I should be made aware of?” Lilith asked coyly, leading Melaran.  
He sniffed, sensing her teasing tone.  
“None that you won't hear later at dinner,” he replied.   
He cast a glance at Miraak, disdainfully.  
“If you even choose to show up.”  
“Back in my day,” Serana intoned in a mock version of Miraak's voice.  
He snorted his amusement and she grinned his way, snubbing Melaran clearly which added to Melaran's grumpiness. Lilith almost pitied him, instead choosing to redirect his attention.  
“We have yet to decide,” she admitted. “We just arrived and are very tired. I myself may follow my associate's lead and eat a small meal and go to sleep.”  
She gently touched his upper arm.  
“But I do look forward to catching up,” she said, smoothing his undoubtedly hurt feelings.  
Appeased, Melaran nodded, though he cast one last cool glance at Serana before he left. Lilith shut the door behind him and turned to them both.  
“Perhaps at court, we can attempt to be nice to the nobility?” she requested.  
“I still think this is a bad idea,” Serana argued.  
“As Arch Mage, I serve a purpose in Skyrim as well as all of Tamriel,” Lilith pointed out. “The duties of the Arch Mage has changed as time has gone on. And it just so happens that I must make an appearance in a public fashion once in awhile.”  
She crossed the room, sitting on her bed.  
“Between the College blowing up and now, such an event hasn't presented itself. Until now.”  
“Hence why you had no choice?” Miraak guessed.  
“Well, that,” Lilith admitted. “Vittoria is a bit of a bitch. Even to her friends. She doesn't much like me.”  
“Why is that?” Serana inquired.  
Lilith sighed, already tired of a story she hadn't yet shared.  
“Awhile back, Vittoria asked me to personally enchant some ring for her. I was unable to, admittedly because I'd neglected my enchanting skills and so was rusty. So I referred her to one of the Master Enchanters from the College and she took it as me snubbing her.”  
“So, more snooty noble hang ups?” Serana guessed.  
“Look, if I didn't come, I would lose the high ground and lose a few noble supporters. Being seen at what will undoubtedly be the event of the year. Doesn't help that thus far the year has been marked by war, dragons and a whole lot of death.”  
Lilith's down was immensely dismissive.  
“I figured you'd be happy I wasn't making eyes at your father,” Lilith confessed.  
“Let it go,” Serana groaned, falling back on her bed.  
“Girls.”  
Miraak's voice was firm.  
“Whatever tension exists between you two needs to cease,” he insisted. “So work it out here. Because you are all each other has in Harkon's Court.”  
He rose, gathering his dirty dishes.   
“I'm going to explore Solitude,” he informed them. “Play nice.”  
This was said mostly to Serana and she made a face at him. But she still closed her mouth, her shoulders relaxing. Miraak nodded, satisfied, and left them alone in the silence.  
“He's right,” Lilith admitted.   
She glanced at Serana.  
“We're going to have to get along.”  
“And what do you propose?” Serana asked. 'To fix this?”  
She gestured between them, probably indicating the less than ideal relationship they had. Lilith shrugged. Very rarely did she have any trouble reaching common ground,even with the most stubborn of Skyrim's inhabitants. And between her and Serana, there was very little to connect over.  
“Dress shopping!” she proposed, the suggestion coming to her.   
She rose with a small bounce.   
“We are in Solitude which boasts one of the best markets in all of Skyrim! We can go tomorrow!”  
“They're just going to go to waste,” Serana reminded the elf. “My father isn't exactly throwing luxurious parties for the human nobility.”  
“True but we won't be part of your father's court for long,” Lilith reminded her. “I feel confident that we'll stop whatever he's plotting, stop Amarenthine and be able to enjoy frivolous human noble parties to our heart's content.”  
“In no time at all?” Serana asked.  
“In no time at all,” Lilith confirmed.   
Serana rolled her eyes but there was a small smile on her face. One that said she hoped Lilith was right.

Cicero smiled wide at the frustration presented, no doubt his infuriating manner of speaking in circles. The Listener had sent him on his merry way with one task to his name. Gather information. It had taken a trip to Whiterun but he'd managed. It hadn't been easy, what with the pockets of scavengers and deserters. The two groups had definitely made it more fun. Sitting back, he got his smile under control, watching the latest victim of his admittedly lacking interrogating skills storm away. Undoubtedly, he'd frustrated her. It didn't phase him too much. He'd warned the Listener. He was better suited for torture chambers. He had no place in negotiating information from the noble class for access to a wedding or any of the parties that preceded it. However, everyone was being very tight lipped about dates and times, information the Brotherhood needed him to get. It was what had him rising from his chair, crossing the room where a group of gossiping men were, stopping only when he realized they'd flocked around a scantily clad redguard, her only real merit the impressive collection of gold around her throat. He changed course, heading for the edge of the pit. There was little that held his interest here, trapped as he was in the underground fight club. He was bored, much rather preferring to be in the pit, bloodying his hidden daggers, which he'd successfully kept hidden from the guard While he'd been allowed to enter the cavern, despite the organizers knowing he was an assassin. The game changed when the assassins came to you. It meant a favor. And an assassin in one's pocket was a valuable thing to have.   
“Excuse me?”   
Cicero glanced away from the pit, from watching the two Nords going at each other, their knuckles bloodied. Their daggers were too rusted to be any use to them. The redguard had come to his side, her hazel eyes searching his face.  
“Have you come to sell?” she asked.  
It was a note in her voice. Slavers had no remorse, they did not see their slaves as people, merely tools to be discarded when they ceased being useful. Their tone was always detached. This girl's held an odd note he couldn't place. There was little doubt in his mind, however. She was no slaver. Which meant she was an oddity and presented the opportunity to play a game. He chuckled.  
“Oh no, Cicero doesn't deal in flesh. But rather in death.”  
Those eyes widened just a bit, probably surprised he'd admit to being an assassin. To her credit, she didn't run. Didn't pull an about face and scurry back to the waiting mob of men who eyed her even now. Men who wouldn't take a step in his direction.   
“An assassin then?” she remarked.   
She smiled, the expression meant to be sultry no doubt, but he saw the fear.  
“A dangerous profession. Not one I'd undertake alone.”  
He smiled, showing teeth.  
“Indeed. But I am not alone.”  
He didn't elaborate, letting his words root themselves in her and he knew when she got it, the smile vanishing in an instant.   
“Dark Brotherhood,” she whispered, the words carried out on a breath.   
Smart girl. He knew, for all his madness, that his little family cozily tucked away in Dawnstar was a struggling chapter. They were rebuilding their ranks, initiates scampering about every once in awhile. It warmed him to know that, despite that sad fact, they still had a name to call their own, a reputation tied to it and one that inspired fear. Fear he saw slowly being shuffled aside, replaced by...concern. Odd. The redguard smiled at him again, this one more sure.  
“How interesting. Truly you'll meet all sorts down here.”  
She pointed over her shoulder at the back of one of the men watching, his attention drawn elsewhere.  
“Why, that nobleman was just telling me about the Cloud District,” she informed him, voice low.   
She truly thought an assassin would want to gossip.  
“No slaves to speak of though. I have one. A bit headstrong. Most certainly an ass. Not worth the clothes I put on his back to be sure but I just want him off my hands,” she said.  
It was an interesting act. So easily she slipped into the role, for a second convincing him he'd imagined her slip in confidence, the uncertain way she spoke of slaves. He would be the first to admit to his mind playing tricks.   
“Now, my fighter,well, worth kingdoms,” she continued.   
She gave the gaggle of women nearby, gathered around the bar and drinking chalices of wine, a sneer.  
“Not a one owns a slave or a fighter. Most simply follow along obediently to such events. Pathetic.”  
She shook her head, turning her attention back to Cicero.  
“But what stake does an assassin have amongst slavers?”  
Her game became evident with such a simple question. She'd lulled him, enticing him with idle chatter that he'd disregard on principle. Assassins had no time for niceties. Cicero tried for a serious expression but knew he didn't achieve it, a maniacal grin crossing his face.  
“I know this game,” he admitted, a small giggle escaping his lips.  
He leaned close, making her uncomfortable, his eyes holding a dangerous glint that reflected in her once again wide eyes.  
“I like this game,” he confessed. “I always win.”  
His face hurt from his grin and somehow it fueled his behavior.  
“Of course, its easy to win when you always kill your opponent.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bishop does not belong to me. He is the property of the Skyrim Romance Mod and Mara

He sat against the wall, watching and waiting. He tried to ignore the suffering around him, the cries of young adventures fresh from the farm as they mourned their freedom, whining about wanting to be home. He also steadily ignored the hard faces of those who'd been slaves awhile, their tired faces marred by harsh lines and scars, evidence of hard labor and an even harder master. He'd been sitting what felt like hours, forced into a cold puddle in the back of the metal cage. He prayed it was water though he doubted it was. All he knew for certain was that he was freezing, hiding his shivers and watching everything inside the cage as well as what he could see outside of it. They were tucked away and, as Falin had guessed, kept from the fighters. A nasty lot, Bishop summed up. He'd seen bodies dragged from the pit, some dead, some on the way there. Their bodies were stacked up by the slave cages and the living fighters, waiting only a few feet away, had chains around their neck. He could see Falin, one of two female fighters and easily the smallest. Her green eyes were vacant, her expression a mask of indifference that differed greatly from the surrounding fighters who roared and threw taunts of violence and murder at the slaves, the guards and the few patrons who'd stormed in, mad their fighter was dead. He was suddenly glad he wasn't mixed in with that mess. He glanced away before he got caught staring, looking into the other cage instead. Belethor had gotten them a pretty clear description of the little girl they were coming to save. Totally useless given there was only one child, the very kid they'd come to save. She was huddled against the bars, curled into as small a ball as possible. And that was it. Two cages stuffed full of miserable people who other than the mental torture the fighters threw their way were totally ignored. Bishop was pissed. All this sacrifice on his part, his armor, his freedom and his weapons, only for it to not come to fruition. He hadn't heard one mention of wolves or lions or even seen an animal of any sort.   
“You're not a slave.”  
The voice was raspy and barely there, the weathered man in front of him the one who'd voiced the accusation. Bishop turned his glare on him, not amused. The man was not deterred, pointing at him.  
“That expression would be long gone now. You'd be broken. A good slave avoids eye contact.”  
“You're staring into my eyes,” Bishop pointed out.   
“I never said I was a good slave.”  
He couldn't help but give the man a half smile, one he quickly stifled, looking back at Falin. Her head was turned towards what he suspected was the pit, her expression just as blank as it had been a few minutes ago when he'd last checked. It was eerie, how quickly she went from bubbly and overflowing with energy to this eerily still version of herself.   
“So, who are you?”   
The man was persistent, Bishop would give him that. He looked back at him.  
“No one,” Bishop replied.  
The man nodded.  
“Well whoever you are, be a bit less obvious you're planning something,” he advised. “Keep looking at your friend there and you'll tip off everyone that she's your partner. She'll either not make it to the ring or else she won't make it out.”  
“You have no idea what she can do,” Bishop snapped.  
“Not much, given her size,” the man remarked, now studying Falin as well.   
Bishop couldn't fault him the assessment. He just didn't want to focus on it anymore, sitting up and leaning closer to the man.  
“Who are you?” he demanded.   
“That sounds like a very familiar question,” the man snarked.  
Bishop's eyes narrowed.  
“Fine then. Don't tell me.”  
“Didn't plan to.”  
Falin would like him.  
“Do you know a way out?” he asked  
“I thought you'd never ask.”

 

It was too familiar. Falin tried not to let the scents and sounds around her pull her too deep in. She closed her eyes, pretending the cold grip of iron around her throat was gone, replaced by the familiar weight of her necklace, ignoring the boisterous yelling from the men around her, all of them shadows of whatever men they had been. They were feral now. It didn't make watching the two staggering Nords any easier to watch. They were covered in blood, each others' and their own. And still they kept swinging, their only worth in how often they won. She crossed her arms, knowing the fight was nearly over. She couldn't guess which of the two would win. They were built similar, muscled and toned. Bulky and probably use to weapons to match which meant the daggers they held were clearly unfamiliar to them. Neither had an advantage that she could see, neither dagger was sharpened to a point. Either they'd both managed to piss their master's off or else their owners were just cruel. Didn't matter which. Falin wasn't here for them. She cast a quick side glance Bishop's way, as she had been doing, careful to not come across as obvious. He was engaged in some conversation with a man across from him, the view and lightning not the greatest. She hoped he was doing more than asking for the man's mud crab stew recipe as she turned her attention back to the Nords. Their fight was wearing down, almost over in fact. She was getting rather bored of the whole facade, of hearing cheers rise up like watching two men beating each other, given no choice to walk away alive, was somehow entertaining. It made her mad all over again and she dug her nails into her arms, fending off memories of the same damn thing. Of standing nearly up to her knees in mud, sliding and sometimes falling, hearing cries of “Kill him,” or “Tear him apart” egging her on. Of hitting the ground so hard sometimes that she could breathe, rolling on her stomach to try and fend of any strikes to it only to end up with a face full of mud, drowning in it sometimes as she gasped hard against the pain. Her body trembled under the weight of memories. Damn them. She hadn't even stepped into the ring yet. A rough hand curled around her upper arm, urging her forward.  
“Your turn,” spat the Imperial, his face hardened and as rough as his hand.  
Falin cracked her knuckles, allowing herself to be led. She was vaguely aware of the two Nords as they were dragged from the ring. And some part of her felt pity. But not enough. The Imperial guided her to the far side of the ring, jerking her to a stop. She gave him a sharp glare which he ignored, probably immune to nasty looks,focusing instead on removing the iron collar. Freed, Falin whirled, her gaze on her opponent. A Khajiit male. A nice change of pace. She'd expected them to line her up with the only other female she'd seen. He hissed her way, charging, surprising the scrawny redguard that was freeing him. Falin's Imperial escort scampered out of the way as the Khajiit pounced. Falin narrowly dodged his claws, waiting last second to leap aside, propelling her body into a roll, trying to gain some distance. Her opponent was fast, keeping pace with her, his claws arcing through the air, tearing through the shoulder of the armor she wore. She felt the sharp sting of claws and flinched, lashing out with her magic and thrusting the Khajiit away from her. He seemed surprised and confused, staring at her suspiciously as if he didn't quite believe she'd actually done anything but having no other explanation. Falin smiled at his confusion, her gaze heading upwards and finding Zadara instantly. The redguard was watching her, well away from the other patrons. Realizing Falin was looking at her, Zadara shook her head, a clear indication that she'd learned nothing they didn't already know. Falin nodded that she understood, meaning to send another sign when she got knocked off her feet, the Khajiit's heavy weight near crushing her as they landed, his claws digging into her skin. Falin hissed, digging her knee into his gut, trying to gain some wiggle room, a feat that wasn't working out for her too well and her opponent laughed audibly at her, his sharp teeth taunting her helplessness.  
“I tried playing nice,” she pointed out before slamming the heel of her boot onto his tail, really mashing it in.  
He hissed and his claws stabbed deeper, pain she ignored in favor of assaulting him with magic, centering on his body. He was flung off her savagely, his claws leaving a trail as his body was thrown away. Falin ignored the blood that streamed from the cuts, lifting her hand and just barely stopping the Khajiit from hitting the opposite wall. He flailed in the air, helpless, unable to get back to the ground. Falin smiled at his helplessness, curling her fingers slowly into a fist, each finger increasing the invisible force that crushed the Khajiit. His fear was palpable, her mind brought back to so many opponents that had screamed their last as they were either thrown from the ring, bodies landing and breaking, or those few she crushed, their bodies breaking beneath her power as they drowned in their blood. Their screams died out sooner. The Khajiit at her mercy was no different, his own screams registering now. She blinked then, brought back to the here and now, staring at the writhing Khajiit. And she smiled.

 

Chaos erupted around her and Zadara froze. Shock had seized her and she was cold. No, Falin hadn't just blatantly used magic. Was she out of her mind? Okay, yes she was actually. Zadara glanced in the direction of the guards, both of which had been drawn to the fight. The Khajiit must have been popular. They were enraged, glaring down at Falin. Until they realized that Falin hadn't been the only one to lie to them, their gazes moving as one and landing on Zadara. She groaned, not knowing which she dreaded more. The incoming fight or Bishop's smug face uttering the words “I told you so.” She didn't waste time, lifting herself over the wood barriers of the ring, the crumbling earth beneath her feet alerting Falin to her presence. It was like a switch, those green eyes shooting to her and recognition dawning in their foggy depths.   
“Catch me!” Zadara commanded and leapt.   
Falin blinked, fully clearing her mind and did just that, her power slipping away from the Khajiit, catching Zadara easily and securely placing her on the ground beside Falin. Drawing her magic back, Falin placed a hand to her forehead, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, aware that Zadara was right there. After a second, certain that she could discern reality from memory, she opened her eyes and met the worried hazel eyes before her.   
“Are you okay?” Zadara asked, no doubt full of questions and only voicing the most prudent.  
“No but I will be,” Falin replied.   
“I'm going to need a sword,” Zadara admitted. “Or a shield. Preferably both.”  
“Aye aye,” was Falin's flippant response, whatever else she might have said cut off by an arrow.  
It pierced the air, hitting the ground beneath her feet.   
“Stay behind me,” Falin instructed.  
Her hands lit up with flames, the likes of which she gathered into fireballs, directing them back at the guards that came rushing out, their intent capture, not roasting to a pleasant char. Pity that Falin's plans disagreed with theirs. She rushed forward, fire balls flying from her hands at an alarming rate. What guards didn't fall to her fire assault quickly found themselves acquiring a flavor for her leather boots, her kicks coming from out of nowhere. Zadara couldn't keep up, marveling at the one woman army that was Falin. She fought them a path into the lower caverns, where both fighters and slaves were kept, raising a wall of flames around the fighters, leaving them distracted with stamping out the fire while they made their way to the cages.   
“Bishop!” Zadara called.  
“I take it you being down here means your plan did not work out.”  
Bishop's voice was all snark as he waded his way through the other slaves, leaning against the cages.   
“Which means I put on this crappy get up for nothing.”  
“I'm glad to see you too,” Zadara hissed back.   
She jumped, the sound of lightning arcing through the air surprising her. She glanced at Falin who gave her a sheepish smile, her hands no longer aflame. So the lightning was her doing and the victim was another guard who'd come from the spectator seats. Good to know they were trickling down. The good news? This one had a sword.   
“Hey,” Bishop objected as Zadara hurried to the fallen guard. “Let me out first!”  
Zadara pointedly ignored him, picking up the sword and feeling a million times better that she had a weapon now. Even one made so cheaply as to be weighted oddly. Weapon in hand, she hurried back to the cage and Bishop who was glaring her way with his arms crossed like a disapproving parent.  
“Oh stop,” Falin insisted. “We're going to let you out.”  
She turned her gaze to the slaves.  
“All of you,” she promised.   
She smiled, looking more like her old self and not the psycho in the ring.  
“Now then, is there a Sissel here?” she asked.  
“I'm Sissel,” a small voice piped up from the second cage.   
The slaves parted, allowing a small Nord girl to step forward, her straw colored hair matted and her small hands chapped and bleeding as they curled around the bars of the cage. Falin reached through the cage, her fingers resting on Sissel's cheek. Zadara stared, surprised, watching Falin's hand light up with healing magic despite the rage storming in those green depths.   
“Alright.”  
After a moment, only after Sissel's fingers had healed completely, Falin drew back, addressing Zadara and Bishop.  
“We get these cages open and we make for the exit. I'll carve us a path and you two take down any stragglers.”  
They nodded.  
“Everyone gets out of here,” Falin declared, the locks shattering.   
Zadara jumped though she shouldn't have been surprised. Not after the Khajiit. Without another word, Falin strode off, her steps purposeful. The cage doors creaked open, letting out the slaves.  
“Follow us,” Zadara ordered gently and they shuffled obediently after her as she followed Falin.  
Without a word, Bishop took a position in the back. Good that he didn't insist Zadara hand over her sword. She was clutching the hilt for dear life and wasn't giving it up to anyone.

 

Murder. Madness. Blood lust. He forced himself to contain his excitement but was slipping. He wasn't use to managing himself, to trying to control his excitement. He looked into the ring, observed the Khajiit corpse, the life squeezed from him as if he was a plump fruit. The bodies of enforcers spread out, moaning from burns or hard kicks to the face. Restraint. The little elven woman was using a lot of it, holding herself back from a darkness so seductive. He admired it and at the same time wanted to draw it out, wondering what that lurking madness could do unrestrained. He should've been livid. If there stood a chance of finding out about the goings on in Solitude, the nobles would have it. This display of rebellion was both a distraction and an inconvenience. He should've hated it, let it flame his own anger. He should've ceased hold his daggers and carved her and her cohorts up and yet he found himself loving it very much. Wanting to bask in it. A sheer jolt of thrill ran through him as he heard a yell across the room, turning to see the little red head as she forced her way forward, her magic a mix of invisible force and lightning. Cicero grinned wider, watching the lightning arc from her finger tips, directed at its mistress's whim. He was mad but he was no fool, stepping into the shadows and blending in, careful to do nothing to draw her attention as he marveled at the rage in her eyes, the desire to kill as well. And yet she didn't. The black bands around her throat and wrists were like beacons, his eyes finding them. Marked as a slave and yet she was anything but. She was destruction and chaos and he envied her. Perhaps more than he envied the Listener. What was one voice whispering in your ear compared to the sheer potential that a living body could do? As his mind entertained those sinful thoughts, his gaze found the hazel eyes of the redguard. She was staring him down, a different look in their depths. It was not fear but an internal conflict, one that dealt with the elf in front of her. She made a choice, in that second. She turned away from him, gritting her teeth and they moved on. No one else noticed Cicero, focused on liberation and escaping alive. And the chaos of them fighting their way out allowed him to slip away undetected, to wait for the chaos to die down. 

 

Those red eyes. Damn them. Damn everything about the wretch before him that wasn't damned before. And for safe measure, damn the damned parts as well. Brynjolf tried to give nothing away, to give no indication to either Hekth or Dyre that he wanted to skin the vampire one strip at a time. He hadn't realized the rage inside him or his propensity for some morbid thoughts until he'd laid eyes on Dyre.   
“Syra's thief,” Dyre finally said, his voice detached.  
45 minutes after Brynjolf had stepped into his line of sight. He'd spent 45 minutes picking out words to hurt. And he'd only uttered those words. And damn them if it didn't work, irking Brynjolf in ways he didn't understand.   
“You should be dead,” Brynjolf replied. “Worm food, even if you aren't good enough to be put in the ground.”  
“And it just irks you that Mother let me live, doesn't it?”  
Dyre smiled, his fangs flashing.   
“You don't get to call her that,” Brynjolf declared. “What you did to her? Sons don't do that to mothers. What you did to Syra? Brothers don't do that.”  
Dyre snorted, his chuckles echoing off the walls.   
“Look at you,” he laughed. “A thief lecturing me on what's right.”  
“I have more morals in my pinky finger than you have in your entire body.”  
“I suppose you have more high ground than an assassin,” Dyre said, completely disregarding Brynjolf's words.  
He seemed more focused on talking to himself, evaluating Brynjolf.  
“I wonder if my mother sleeps at night, wrapping herself in a blanket of lies about how serving her god is somehow different than how I served my god.”  
He looked at Brynjolf again.  
“You know Lord Bal always did have an interest in Syra. Cited her indomitable will I believe.”  
He shrugged, almost as if he couldn't care less.   
“A lesson to be sure, thief. Don't deal with the Daedra.”  
He sucked in a breath.  
“Oh, never mind. You already serve Nocturnal. Seems it may be too late for you.”  
Brynjolf glared but kept his temper in check.  
“Funny you mention the Daedra so casually. As I recall, Amarenthine is the daughter of a Daedric Prince. And she serves another Daedra.”  
Brynjolf mockingly smiled at the vampire.  
“And I recall she left you high and dry as easily as your master.”  
“Mhm, yes. Its unfortunate,” Dyre agreed. “Is that why you came to visit? Because you think I'll tell you a bit more about Amarenthine?”  
“I trust that Lilith is more an expert on her sister than you,” Brynjolf retorted dryly. “No, I came looking for the Elder Scroll.”  
“Oh? Hope to reclaim it? Steal it? Embolden your dying little guild?” Dyre taunted.  
“Ah no, well, I'm no Grey Fox,” Brynjolf replied. “I can't pull so many strings as to steal a Scroll from the Imperial Library.”  
Dyre studied him now, those red eyes searching yet guarded. And then, he grinned. The expression was dark and mischievous. Not one Brynjolf liked.  
“Mother revealed Syra was gone. Poof. Disappeared. I don't quite believe her saying Syra went off with dragons. How preposterous.”  
He was looking for confirmation and Brynjolf shut his expressions down, locking in one of annoyance permanently.   
“Shame you're in a cage huh? Or else you'd know, wouldn't you?”  
Dyre's expression turned into a glare, studying Brynjolf with a mix of matched annoyance and tempered rage. He clearly didn't appreciate Brynjolf's answer.   
“I would've assumed Bal would pull Syra back. He did so enjoy watching her scamper across his realm. I often wondered what little monsters she had to avoid,” Dyre admitted, a ghost of a smile on his lips.   
He leaned closer to the bars, angling his head to look up at Brynjolf.  
“Do you think she's back in Coldharbour? What if she is, running for her life? Crying out for help because she's afraid?”  
He grinned now, fully.  
“Is she calling for you?”  
Brynjolf crossed his arms, holding his rage, forcing himself not to lash out. Not to snap. If he did, Hekth would drag him out, never to let him near Dyre again, for both of their sakes'.   
“These are thoughts that keep you up, aren't they?” Dyre guessed.   
He laughed when Brynjolf replied with silence.   
“Syra doesn't leave what she cares about behind. She is the sentimental sort. So if she left you, if she ran off of her own free will without you, you don't matter,” he declared. “You've inserted yourself in our lives when you have no place. For Syra, for my mother, I am a chapter. You? A mere foot note.”  
“And what am I to you?” Brynjolf demanded.   
Those red eyes glittered with boredom as the vampire settled back into his lounging position, the same one he'd started this encounter with.   
“To me, you are nothing.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bishop is the creative property of Mara and the Skyrim Romance Mod

No surprise. Bishop was the first to wake up. He jumped awake, scrambling, smacking Zadara in his wake. She reacted to the attack, kicking back before she realized it was him. Her hair,usually tightly braided was out of place. Bishop rubbed his leg, grumpy already but not enough to fully gripe.  
“Ugh.”  
Zadara rubbed her neck.  
“Sorry,” she said.   
“Still having trouble believing we managed to escape a slave den?” he asked.   
He was having trouble wrapping his head around that fact as well. Still, looking at Falin, where she still slept contently against the wall, Sissel tangled up in her body, it was something becoming easier to accept. Zadara was climbing to her feet, stiff from the night on the floor. She relied on the dresser mostly, her leg still asleep but sturdy beneath her. She offered a hand to Bishop who took it. As soon as he was on his feet, there came a knock on the door. Both of them tensed, Zadara grabbing the sword she'd taken from the den. Bishop went for the door, opening it carefully, the innkeeper's equally grumpy face greeting him.   
“Your friends are awake,” she informed him of the slaves they'd liberated, who'd opted to sleep in the inn's cellar.  
From Hulda's face, they weren't behaving.   
“We'll be right down,” Zadara said, hiding the sword behind her back.   
She offered a smile.  
“We'll be leaving today,” she assured the Nord woman who gave her a sharp nod, retreating.  
“She hates us,” Bishop observed.   
He closed the door, firmly, retreating to the dresser and pulling out his hastily stashed clothing. He'd been too tired to do much the night before. Feeding the liberated slaves and settling them for the night had been a chore in and of itself. Zadara had handled that. And Falin. Well, whatever meltdown had happened the night prior, she'd suppressed it only to collapse under its weight once the danger had passed. She'd sat apart, falling to pieces silently in a corner. Bishop only knew that because he'd shot glances when the stray cup moved on its own or the broom tipped and clattered to the floor. Because, really, if she lost control, who could stop her? He shook that thought from his head, peeling off the grimy shirt and kicking off the damp pants, the liquid he'd been sitting on still a mystery.  
“Are you serious?” Zadara hissed, no doubt surprised he'd so easily stripped to his small clothes with her in the room.  
“Where is there to change?” he asked, securing his pants and knowing he was right.  
She growled and he smirked smugly, securing his belt before pulling his shirt on. Zadara's temper didn't have its usual edge, tempered by some unknown factor. He suspected it still weighed heavily on her. Though whatever could eclipse the price on her head certainly didn't bode well for them.   
“Let's let them sleep,” Bishop decided. “I'm sure we can scrounge together enough food for our lot.”  
Zadara sighed, relenting, reaching for Falin's tall boots, the only thing that she could really wear with the strap heavy leather armor she was still wearing. The boots slipped on easy and Bishop opened the door, holding it open for Zadara who gave him a dark look.  
“You just want me to go first so you can stare at my ass,” she accused him.  
And admittedly, she was not wrong, though he wouldn't confess to that aloud.   
“Excuse me for trying to brush up on my manners,” he teased her, dodging the low kick she sent his way by slipping around the door.   
Zadara followed, closing the door carefully. And he let the silence that fell between them persist, not quite knowing how well Falin could hear. They took the stairs together, side by side, walking into what they'd assumed would be chaos but was in fact much creepier. And worse in Bishop's opinion. The liberated slaves stood in little pockets scattered around the inn's main hall, quietly observing fearfully. Save for the solo slave that had engaged Bishop in the cage, who was nowhere in sight. Bishop noticed that instantly but kept it silent.  
“They're lost,” Bishop whispered to Zadara.   
“Wills are the first thing broken,” Zadara replied.   
She'd seen plenty of slaves in the Isles, cowering in the estates of her father's relatives, their fear their chains. Very few had the look of defiance left and those that did usually had lost it by her next visit. She'd need dozens more hands to count the slaves she'd seen who had lost tongues or been crippled horribly for daring to simply try for freedom. He'd never treated his help as slaves. They were servants, yes, but they were well fed, paid and provided for in terms of comfort and health. Her father was an oddity amongst his people.  
“I'll start cooking,” Bishop declared, disappearing quickly into the kitchen before Zadara could relent or object.  
The coward. She moved forward, smiling gently. And the slaves responded, allowing her to usher them back to the cellar. Despite being a cellar, it was warm and clean, bedrolls creating a second floor with how close together they were to each other. She could only imagine it, huddling in a cellar, not certain what you'd wake up to in the morning. She was amazed they were still here.   
“Do you... do you know what's going to happen to us?”   
The woman who asked was a redguard, her voice soft and unimposing. Her deep brown gaze was on the floor, despite Zadara being at eye level with her. Without thinking, she reached out, lifting that chin to meet her eyes. The terror in those chocolate pools hurt her. Zadara felt a wash of anger at whatever simpering ass had broken her but she channeled as much warmth into her eyes as she could, smiling at the woman.  
“My friend will not let you go back to slavery,” she declared. “You have my word on that.”  
The terror was still there, perhaps more as a fear of the unknown now, but she offered Zadara a smile and Zadara released her chin. The redguard scurried away and Zadara, not knowing what else to do bowed out, her intent to procure milk or mead or whatever she could get her hands on. 

 

Belethor leaned against the counter, his eyes skimming the letters. Most were threats, as was the usual. He wasn't the most loved man in the providence. The last was an inventory notice, new goods that would soon darken his doorstep. And the last-   
“Shit!”  
He jumped when the door practically exploded, flying off its hinges, the chaotic landing knocking a vase off the nearby table, shattering it. Admittedly not an expensive vase value wise but it would've brought a nice sum when he parted with it. And now it was shattered. Of course, looking up at who came through his door, he kept his lips sealed on that topic.  
“Falin,” he greeted, with a nod. “You look different. Did you misplace that delicious armor of yours?”  
She strode in, looking as if she'd been dragged through Oblivion itself. The band on her throat was marred by a cut, the disturbed skin around it boasting of poison. She was trembling as well, her legs shaky as she made it to the counter, slumping over it. Belethor caught her arms, keeping her there.  
“We...got Sissel,” she managed. “And the slaves.”  
Her skin was practically on fire.   
“I think you need to go see an apothecary, love,” he advised.   
In response, Falin laid her head on the counter, her ragged hair draped over the edge. Belethor sighed, one of deep suffering, realizing he wouldn't be rid of her any time soon. Pity. He'd hoped to wrap up her damage causing visit, write a letter to the old mage of his and be back in the business of peddling enchanted goods.   
“Sigurd!” he called. “Wake up you useless runt!”  
He heard the routine thump that said his assistant was awake, heard the accompanying scrambling as the blasted idiot hurry into his clothes. In the meantime, he hefted Falin over the counter, carrying her to a chair where he unceremoniously deposited her, tilting her head to the side so he could study the wound on her neck.  
“Falin, hey.”  
He shook her a bit, watching for her eyes to clear. When they did, she cast a glare his way annoyed he was disturbing her.   
“Sir!” Sigurd reported, appearing from upstairs.  
He was a mess, his clothes askew and shoes unlaced but Belethor didn't have time to address him.  
“Go next door. Get Arcadia,” Belethor ordered, not even bothering to watch his assistant scurry away.  
He turned his attention back to Falin.  
“If you have any other cuts, speak now,” he ordered.   
“Just that...one,” she admitted.   
She grimaced.  
“I... didn't see the archer,” she confessed. “I missed... the arrow.... until it grazed me.”  
“Slow acting poison then,” Belethor mused.  
He wasn't an alchemist, that was for sure.   
“Where are those two you had with you?” he asked. “The grumpy one and the redguard?”  
“Inn,” Falin replied.   
On cue, the city guard hurried in, no doubt a result of the lollygagger he paid handsomely to watch his store front moseying back finally.   
“Belethor, what in the name of Arkay is going on?” he demanded.  
“So nice of you to show up,” Belethor sneered, annoyed.  
His door was busted, his hired help were worth so much less than what he paid, and not to mention the matter of the dying girl in his chair. His temper was very close to raging out of control.  
“Go to the inn. Ask for the grumpy Nord and the redguard female that are there. Tell them their friend is here,” he ordered.  
At least the guard moved faster, bolting out at a straight run right as Arcadia and Sigurd came back. Arcadia assessed the situation, her gaze falling instantly on Falin. She rushed to action, pushing him aside and inspecting the wound, eyeing the skin there, the faint hint of discoloration.  
“Looks like spider venom,” she observed.   
She made a face.  
“What?” Belethor demanded.  
Arcadia glanced at him.  
“I can't tell which spider its from,” she admitted. “It could be frostbite or just a general spider venom.”  
She looked back at Falin.  
“The effects are very similar.”  
“So give her both,” Belethor pressed.  
Arcadia clearly objected to his approach, her mouth opening to say so. Only for the redguard to come bursting in, trampling the vase's remains in her wake as well as knocking over the chalices that had been arranged around the vase. He flinched as they clanked against the floor but kept his mouth shut.  
“The guard,” she panted. “He told me to come quickly.”  
She stood and Belethor gave her a quick once over, one she noticed, crossing her arms defensively over her assets and giving him a look. Ah right, Falin and poison. Not a good mix.   
“Apparently in your haste last night, Falin got hit by an arrow,” Belethor explained, making eyes at her, hoping she'd realize that they were in front of people very clearly not in the loop.  
As if further proving her sense, the redguard's eyes flashed to Arcadia.  
“What kind of poison is it?” she demanded, moving forward, not waiting for an answer.  
She studied the wound, tilting Falin's head and squinting even as she leaned closer.  
“Spider,” she answered her own question, voice low.  
“I can't tell which spider,” Arcadia admitted. “Her... mark is affecting the discoloration.”  
Zadara spared her a glance before her eyes returned to Falin's neck.   
“We're wasting time,” she insisted. “The best course of action is to go back and find the ass who shot her.”  
She glanced at Belethor.  
“Oh, what, just because I pointed you to the pit, you expect me to know where they'd run when they're scared?”  
Her hazel eyes narrowed, promising severe bodily injury if he didn't open his mouth. And normally, in front of a guard, he'd feel cocky and secure. But he got a bad feeling about the tall redguard.  
“Alright, let me write down the instructions.”

Serana grimaced, emerging from the Blue Palace, adventuring into Solitude. Despite proclaiming her desire for an early start, Lilith had burned the candle on both ends, staying up well past Serana and Miraak. Serana only knew this because Lilith would occasional wake her up, either accidentally smacking her with a carelessly discarded book or by stretching over Serana's sleeping form to reach something on Serana's side. As such, she wasn't in the best mood but she also didn't feel like trying to acclimate to a human city with Lilith dictating her interactions. She wanted to be alone, taking everything at her own pace before being overshadowed and approached by Lilith's reputation. The sky was overcast, the promise of rain evident, perhaps later in the day. For now, it meant she could walk without her hood up, enjoying the sea breeze that found its way to her nose. The desire to be by the ocean gripped her but she suppressed it, not wanting to leave the city and risk not being let back in. To distract herself, she chose instead to admire the architecture.   
“You once said you could see Solitude from the castle.”  
Serana whirled around, confused that no one was behind her. At least until she had the thought to look up, witnessing Miraak lounging comfortably atop an oddly placed brick wall outside the Castle Dour. He was gazing down at her mischievously.  
“Is it everything you imagined?”  
Serana smirked up at him.  
“That remains to be seen,” she replied.  
She tilted her head a bit.  
“What are you doing up there?” she asked.  
“Winning at tag,” Miraak replied.  
He glanced at a point over his shoulder behind him before leaning down and extending a hand to Serana. She trusted him, taking his hand and letting him pull her up with him.   
“No fair!” a prepubescent voice whined a few seconds later.  
Serana glanced down at a little Nord boy, gazing up at them, his face twisted in a pout.  
'That's cheating!”   
“You specified no rules when you invited me to play tag,” Miraak pointed out. “I'm sure with a bit of work, you could get me.”  
He pointed, bored, at the spot of graves a little ways away.   
“One of the girls is over there,” he informed the boy.  
With one last pout, the boy turned and hurried after his new target.  
“I didn't think you were serious,” Serana admitted, settling on the wall.   
Miraak smirked her way.  
“I had nothing better to do. Those kids are hard to catch,” he confessed.  
“Is that why you're on wall?” Serana asked.  
“I have been 'it' way too many times,” Miraak declared. “Besides, he's a Nord. A wall like this should be no problem for a boy his age.”  
“You didn't make me scale the wall,” Serana pointed out.  
He turned his gaze on her, an almost sultry hint to it.  
“Because I know you can.”  
Serana turned away before her face could explode in a full blush, her gaze on the children chasing each other, giving no mind to Miraak who was safe from their game. To his credit, Miraak gave her that silence, not pressing for conversation. He was silent beside her.   
“Lilith wants me to go dress shopping,” Serana offered.  
“A perfectly reasonable outing,” he remarked.   
“I know nothing about that,” Serana declared. “My parents never gave much care to appearance past what made them look powerful.”  
Miraak made a sound in the back of his throat, one that sounded distinctly like a snort. Was he really laughing at her? Just to be on the safe side, she glared his way.   
“It is certainly not a problem I've ever found myself having,” he confessed, his hands held up in surrender.   
“I don't know how to be human,” Serana sighed.  
She tilted her head back, staring up at the sky.   
“You are more human than you think,” Miraak assured her.  
She glanced his way now and her attention seemed to be his goal.  
“Your father and Dyre are the best examples I can offer. You are nothing like them. You do not hold yourself above me because you are a vampire. You don't know how to be human because there is no single way to be a human. There is so many ways.”  
He smiled her way, the expression warm.  
“You're doing fine anyway,” he assured her. “Just keep refraining from tearing anyone's throat out and your set.”  
“Its that easy?” Serana laughed. “No problem there then.”  
She was only being partially cynical.  
“Isn't that why you come to me?” Miraak asked. “With problems where the answer is so easy yet you overlook it because you enjoy a challenge.”  
Serana rolled her eyes at him, realizing that he was somewhat right. Not that she'd admit it. He'd be impossible to live with if she did.   
“You know, just once,” Miraak continued, his tone...teasing.  
It was an odd thing to hear and it set her on edge, her gaze wary now. He was very clearly holding back a smile as he reached out, his hand grazing her cheek as he stared into her eyes.  
“You could come to me crying. Allow me to comfort you.”  
She almost blushed. Almost. Because that damn grin, the one he reserved only when he was 100% kidding stretched across his face.   
“You...you-”  
Serana had no words, her sentence dissolving into a guttural huff that had Miraak practically rolling with laughter. And as good as his laugh was to hear, as warm as it made her feel, she also wanted to box his ears. Rather than something he'd no doubt see coming, she chose instead to shove him off the wall, taking deep satisfaction in hearing him grunt as he hit the ground. Her satisfaction level rose when she heard the a tiny voice seconds later.  
“You're it,” that tiny voice said, a little girl's giggle followed by footsteps fleeing.   
And then Miraak swearing loudly. 

 

Her body was covered in a cold sweat, her mind only half aware of what was going on. Yep, she should've gone to the healers as soon as she'd gotten to Whiterun. Adrenaline had only carried her so far. But now, she was kicking herself. The poison was burning her, her blood fire as it coursed through her. Her heartbeat was too loud in her ears. She'd been vaguely aware of Zadara hovering over her before the redguard vanished. Which meant there was a slim chance said redguard was an illusion. Just her luck. Why she'd dragged herself to Belethor, she didn't quite know. Maybe because as much as her father raged about the Breton, their interactions had always been the decent sort. Mostly. She reflected on it, on meeting Belethor when he was still a traveling merchant. He hadn't changed much, still the same sleazy bastard that had shown her how not to talk to a woman. She shook away more...naughty thoughts, figuring that it probably wouldn't do to ruminate on something that would increase her pulse. She opened her eyes, gazing up at Bishop. Unsurprising that she didn't remember being moved.  
“Awake again,” he remarked seeing her eyes open.   
He looked strained but hid it, turning away. She heard liquid sloshing and when he turned back, he placed a wet cloth on her.   
“Your fever needs to come down,” he explained.   
Falin made a face, shifting a bit under the blanket, making another face. Bishop rolled his eyes, either because he didn't care for her disgruntlement or he knew what was coming.  
“Am I... naked under here?” she asked.  
“As the day you were born,” Bishop replied deadpan.   
“Where...are... the slaves?” Falin asked.  
She let her head lull to the side but it was only the two of them in the room.   
“Sissel-”  
“They are fine. She is fine. Hulda let us stay another night. I did let her put the slaves to work. Mostly helping with meals since we've been cooking for them. I doubt they can complain about the treatment they've received thus far.”  
Falin relaxed, not realizing she had tensed up.  
“Where's... Zadara then?” she asked.  
Bishop studied her, not sure, it seemed, on what he should tell her. Falin fixed him with a glare, hoping it was threatening. She doubted it was and he smirked at her, confirming her doubts.  
“Zadara went to hunt down either the remaining slavers or find the arrow that shot you,” he explained.  
“You... let her go...alone.”  
Falin was annoyed that her incredulous tone came off weaker.   
“And...why are you...smiling?”  
Bishop chuckled.  
“She basically manhandled a shield into her hands from your sleazy friend,” he said. “It was pretty funny to watch. And before you ask why I didn't go with her, she told me to stay here and watch over you.”  
He peeled the cloth off her forehead.  
“That alchemist is useless,” he declared.  
He was much more talkative than usual. For her benefit? Or to stop her questions?  
“Antidotes...differ,” Falin groaned out. “Poisons do...too.”  
Bishop shrugged.   
“Even still, there must be something to reduce your fever,” he mused. “Besides water.”  
Even as he spoke, he refreshed the cloth, placing it back on her head. His hand lingered a bit before he dropped it.  
“Since you seem more...awake this time. Can I ask you a question?” he inquired.  
“Just...did,” Falin pointed out.   
Bishop wrinkled his nose at her but chose not to address it.  
“When you and your mother were slaves, what...kind of slave were you?”  
He was choosing his words carefully, something clearly new to him.   
“I was... a pit dog,” Falin admitted.  
Bishop's eyes widened, recalling her falling apart, sitting apart from them and holding herself as if she was trying to hold herself together.   
“Last night brought a lot back,didn't it?” he demanded, his frustration clear in his voice.  
Falin was silent, not answering his question audibly. Her silence was confirmation however and he sighed in annoyance.  
“Why didn't you let me go as the fighter?” he demanded. “Or Zadara?”  
Falin looked his way, the cloth slipping off her neck.  
“My...necklace,” she managed. “When I was freed... my father's crew commissioned it.”  
She was using more strength to speak more, to fully explain herself.  
“I had a hard...time...controlling my force magic. I...it made me popular. I was prized...because of it. It was part of me,” she explained. “I couldn't...not use it.”  
“The necklace-”  
“Keeps me grounded,” Falin confirmed.  
She offered him a cheek splitting grin, weak though it was.  
“But slaves don't wear gold.”

 

Rage. Hot and sharp inside him. He kicked the dirt, scattering rocks. Humiliation would soon follow, once others heard how easily his operation had been turned upside down. And word would spread fast, like fire on a dry plain. Damn nobles and their social circles.   
“Ugh,” he groaned, sitting on an overturned bucket.  
His wounds ached. Whatever invisible force that had carved his slaves way to freedom had flung him aside, slamming him into a stray jagged rock. He'd bled a great deal before his few surviving men had carried him to freedom and patched him up as best they could.  
“Human traffic isn't the way to go, boss,” piped up Ollhor.   
He'd been itching to wash their hands of the slave trade. Mostly because running drugs meant he'd always have a supply.  
“Slaves are profitable,” sneered Virne.  
He had been restringing his bow but clearly he was beyond done. He was tired of Ollhor. Or else he was just tired. His leg was in a splint. Someone had landed on him wrong, breaking it. They'd had to reset it best they could, none of them trained to do such a thing. And their own mage had been killed when the pit fighters had gotten loose, tearing into each other as well as anyone they got their hands on.  
“And exotic animals run higher profits,” Ollhor insisted. “The last time I was in Riften, a buddy of mine was talking about a wolf pit there.”  
“Wolves aren't exotic,” their boss pointed out, crossing his arms.   
He flinched, his ribs still tender.   
“But lions are!” Ollhor continued in excitement. “They caught one out in Markarth and we're moving her. They just needed a wagon to get her to the Rift.”  
“When was this?”  
The voice was female, a jarring deviant from his strictly all male crew. As one their heads turned, gaze landing on the redguard female who'd managed to sneakily approach.   
“Hey!”  
Virne rose, upsetting his crate.   
“You're that broad that brought that elf bitch.”  
The one that helped their merchandise escape.  
“You've got a lot of nerve showing up here.”  
She smirked, clearly amused, drawing her sword. She gave it a practice swing.  
“Would you believe that's not the first time I've heard that?” she asked.  
Virne's head snapped to Ollhor.  
“Go,” he snarled, resuming his restringing.  
Ollhor charged forward, drawing his great sword. His swing was slow but backed by a lot of strength. The redguard brought up her shield, blocking him and shoving him back, her stance firm. Ollhor's weight was unevenly distributed, the shove not overly powerful but enough to upset him. She pulled no punches, her sword stabbing into his armor less flesh. Virne didn't miss a step, his bow in one piece. She dodged his first arrow, continuing forward. She sliced down the ringleader, shifting her grip on her hilt to slice his knees first before stabbing the sword through his jaw. There was some resistance and she released the sword, dancing backwards, avoiding the arrows that boasted a coating of poison. Perfect. She held up her shield, stopping another arrow that would've embedded itself in her chest. She threw her shield then, squarely at the elf. He was surprised by the brash move, stumbling over his crate and falling. He could hear his arrows hit the ground, his bow forced from his hand. As he got up to retrieve it, to keep the fight going, he found himself staring up the blade of her sword, her light eyes glaring down at him. Virne nervously splayed his hands in surrender.  
“Alright, you win,” he assured her, all the fight leaving him as he tried coming off as innocent as possible.   
“Agreed,” she said. “Now its time to see about tying up loose ends.”  
She drove her sword down, stabbing him in the throat. The last thing he was aware of was the redguard stopping down, grabbing the arrows as well as the bottle of poison he'd used to refresh the poison on them, capping it and walking away. And then he faded away.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've hoarded quite a few chapters over on deviantart but since I'm posting here. I want to announce that Bishop is the ORIGINAL product of Bioware as he is a character in their game NeverWinter Nights. Bishop is also a character in the Skyrim Romance Mod and while he isn't owned by Mara, the mod is. The mod is pretty boss, as its one of the few out there focused solely on us gals, so still check it out but proceed with caution.

The early morning air had a bit of a nip to it, not that he spent too much time focusing on that, his curiosity pointed elsewhere. He hadn't slipped away completely, choosing to seek some shelter in Whiterun. And hadn't that turned out well for him? The invitation to come to Solitude, to celebrate both the engagement party and wedding of the Emperor's cousin safely folded and tucked in his left glove. The blubbering nobleman wouldn't utter a word, reputation demanded it. And to add to all of these happy coincidences, the likes of which stacked nicely in his favor, well, he'd spotted a large party leaving Whiterun under cover of darkness, wrapped in cloaks, their hoods pulled up. And yet he'd still recognized the custom armor the redguard from the slavers' den had wrapped herself in. She'd led the merry party, unaware of his presence. He suspected the Nord had a feeling, glancing over his shoulder as he did, clearly disturbing the bundle on his back when he moved too fast. Sticking to the darker shadows, he followed their progress, finding excitement in the simple act of hunting when usually it was the kill that got his pulse going. No doubt existed in his mind that the wraithish bodies that clambered into the wagon awaiting the group well outside the gates were the emancipated slaves, who reached for the Nord's burden as soon as they settled. Her cloak slipped enough, revealing the murderous little elf, also from the den. She was dozing, swaddled as soon as the slaves had hands on her, taking care not to jar her as the Nord had done. Now free to look around, he did, clearly not liking that he felt someone watching and couldn't decipher where they were. The redguard stepped beside him, saying something though her words were lost to the wind and distance between. And he looked back at her, clearly replying. While they seemed disturbed, probably because the Nord had shared his suspicions, they could do nothing. The Nord helped the redguard onto the wagon and she took her place in the driver's seat, picking up the reins. Only when the Nord mounted the horse tied to the wagon, freeing her to trot separate did the redguard snap the reins, the cart horse lurching forward. Cicero grinned into the dark, knowing there was only one reason to leave under cover of dark. And then his grin vanished as he realized he wouldn't be able to follow, his services tied to the Night Mother. And, no doubt, the Night Mother would be calling him back soon.

 

Arcadia couldn't help but feel slightly violated, waking as she did to discover someone had used her alchemy lab, the table top much cleaner than she left it most nights. That was her first clue. The second was the suspicious lack of ingredients in stock as well as the neatly tied sack of gold on her counter. What had been left was a bit more than the ingredients cost but it didn't make up for her dislike at knowing someone had riffled through her store, right below her own bed. Oh gods, what if they'd done more? No, no. She chastised herself, knowing she was being paranoid. She stashed the gold in her safe, locking it securely, putting her store to order before she headed to the Bannered Mare, her goal to check on the patient. She found Hulda rather quickly, the innkeeper enjoying a warm stew for her breakfast,the redguard woman who worked for her sweeping the inn which was otherwise quiet.  
“Good morning, Hulda,” Arcadia greeted. “I've come to see my patient this morning.”  
“Your patient's gone,” Hulda replied matter of factly.  
“Gone?”  
“They left sometimes between last night and early this morning,” Hulda replied.  
She shrugged.  
“The redguard woman brought back a potion bottle and some arrows. I imagine she found either the poison needed or the antidote. Which renders your services unnecessary.”  
“Shame,” Arcadia remarked with a sigh. “I could've used the business.”  
Hulda, as was typical of the stern innkeeper, fixed Arcadia with a look.  
“Do you think Belethor has any idea where they went?” Arcadia asked.  
“Of course he does,” Hulda admonished her. “He won't say a word one way or the other. I suspect because its not our business.”  
Whatever Arcadia planned to say next was lost as the dark shrouded figure entered, letting the door fall closed behind them. One gloved hand reached up, removing the hood, revealing the glaring Altmer below.  
“A room,” he demanded, his wheat colored eyes narrowing in disdain at them. “Now.”  
Hulda cast a look at Arcadia, one that said she didn't particularly like being spoken to in such a way but with less and less travelers passing through, she couldn't be too picky regarding patrons.  
“One emptied out upstairs this morning,” she informed him. “My girl's busy setting it to rights and shouldn't be much longer.”  
The Altmer sniffed, clearly not liking the mere idea of waiting but accepting it as just one of those things his kind had to suffer in the face of incompetence. His next action was to whip out the folded paper he'd tucked into his bag, brandishing it for the two women to see.  
“Have you seen this woman?” he demanded, hoping this forced interaction hadn't been for naught.  
Their eyes drank in the redguard illustrated on the page, the paper knew and some of the ink smudged. Arcadia's eyes widened. She had seen said woman, the picture clearly something drawn from memory or description. There were discrepancies but she was most assured that the woman before her was the woman from the day before.  
“Never seen her.”  
Hulda's voice was smooth, her face stone. Arcadia had to look, shocked at the blatant lie. The innkeeper was a much better liar than Arcadia would've assumed, turning back to the Altmer, realizing he was waiting for her answer.  
“The only redguard I've seen recently has been Nazeem,” she lied quickly, pasting a smile on. “Came to my shop for a burn cream. I'm an alchemist you see an-”  
“Enough.”  
The Altmer held his hand up, silencing her. Without another word, he brushed past them, claiming an empty seat tucked away at the back of the inn. It was a distance away from the fire, a definite downside. He settled into the rather uncomfortable chair, adding the creak it gave to his list of disgruntlements, closing his eyes. They weren't closed long, the creaking of another chair giving him a reason to open his eyes, glaring harshly at the redheaded little Imperial sitting across from him, curiously enough wearing a jester outfit. And perhaps, if his mood wasn't so dismal, he would've summoned forth the effort to make the pathetic fool dance.  
“Leave me,” he instructed dismissively.  
“You're an assassin,” the jester declared.  
His tone was just low enough that it didn't draw any attention from the meandering fools across from there. The Altmer, for his credit, didn't react. Inside, however, his guts clenched. Would anyone miss the jester should he die? Because it was a heavy possibility that's what the end result would be.  
“I don't know what you're talking about,” the Altmer insisted, the denial not at all convincing as those glittering eyes narrowed a bit.  
It was a dangerous look. Paired with the unnerving feeling that decorated his spine, he was more and more convinced the man before him was no mere man.  
“Perhaps Mother knew an assassin would creep his way where he didn't belong,” the jester remarked, smiling ever so slightly, the expression menacing.  
He leaned a bit closer.  
“My patron wants the matter handled quietly. She does not wish for her target to become a statement for any upstarts.”  
The Altmer faced the jester, portraying confidence now. He had to. And if not confidence than indifference.  
“If it so offends you to have another assassin working in your reach, then let us come to a truce until my job is finished. I have many contacts, allow me to extend them to you.”  
“Noble contacts?” the jester inquired. “The sort able to grant entrance to a wedding party?”  
'Wedding party?'  
The Altmer's lips quirked a bit. Ah, yes, Vittoria Vici, a distant cousin to the illustrious emperor.  
“Perhaps but doing so would take an invitation away from someone within my circle. And on such short notice.”  
He shook his head.  
“The pay off seems unfairly weighed in your favor.”  
He should've known better than to push his luck as the jester rose, leaning into his personal space, his eyes wild and dangerous as whatever illusion he exuded to make himself seem like someone one could negotiate with fell away, leaving behind only the embodiment of a knife to one's throat.  
“An invitation for your life,” the jester explained what was at stake. “How does the pay off look now?”

 

“This was a horrible trade!”  
Zadara smirked, glad she'd wisely settled in the wagon bed with her back to Bishop. It allowed her to express her amusement as he now dealt with what would no doubt be a sore ass later on on top of saddle sores. And it let her study the area map Bishop kept tucked in his pack. His handwriting was incredibly neat, for someone so rough around the edges. She skimmed the map for the Rift and was not disappointed. All the Holds were marked, little pictures etched into the map's folds to indicate inns he'd found, caves and a few other isolated landmarks.  
“Falin, damn it!”  
The wagon jerked, Bishop yanking the reins as Falin, once more, darted in front of them, really working the second horse for all she was worth as she darted across the expanse, Sissel in front of her.  
“Falin, you're still recovering!” Zadara called out.  
“I feel fine!” Falin yelled back, clearly intent on ignoring all advice.  
Zadara sighed, the sound ragged. At first, she'd been glad, mid morning, when Falin had woken up, insisting they pull over so she could take back her armor and necklace from Zadara. Even more glad when the halfling was back in her usual attire and demanded Bishop ride in the wagon so that she could ride his horse. However, she found her relief waning a bit, wishing Falin was still tucked amongst the former slaves, sleeping peacefully. She also wished she hadn't whipped together such a potent antidote. Perhaps one that took a few days to shake the effects of the poison. Falin, as if realizing she was the forefront of Zadara's mind, pulled up alongside her, all grins.  
“There will be plenty of time to rest when we get to Solitude!” Falin assured her. “My ship is there. We'll settle everyone in, have just enough time to do the absolute minimal amount of ass kissing to Vittoria and then we'll set back out to get Ashanti!”  
“That's not a plan,” Bishop remarked from the wagon seat.  
“It so is! And a full proof one,” Falin declared.  
Even with her back to him, Zadara knew he was rolling his eyes. When she cast a glance his way, just to check, she could see he was sulking. As was to be expected. Falin gave the reins to Sissel, leaning the top half of her body in the wagon to see the map.  
“We are very close to Solitude,” Falin mused aloud, probably not even meaning to inform anyone so much as audibly reiterate it to herself.  
“It helps that there aren't any dragons,” Bishop said. “I spent a lot of time dodging them. Not easy. Add to that the Forsworn. They've been spreading outwards more and more, just because they can.”  
“Good work on keeping us out of their path,” Zadara praised him.  
It seemed to improve his mood a bit, his head lifting from where he'd squarely set it on his shoulders just a bit.  
“If we leave the wagon behind, there's no need to go through Dragon's Bridge,” Falin remarked.  
“Why skip Dragon's Bridge?” Bishop demanded. “The guard presence gets a bit better out that way. Plus if this party is really such a big deal, then there will be a lot of foot traffic.”  
Falin made a face.  
“I don't want to bring it up,” she confessed, going no further in her explanation.  
And she meant to keep it that way, pushing herself back into the saddle.  
“If we go without the wagon, we can cut out a few hours of travel,” she said, mostly to Bishop.  
“The riverside isn't calm either,” Bishop pointed out. “Mudcrabs and slaughterfish. Not to mention any bears or sabre cats waiting for dinner.”  
“Much preferred to an ambush of bandits hiding in the hills.”  
“There are a few places that don't have the most solid of banks either,” Bishop continued. “Pretty easy for someone to fall in to the rapids. Or for a horse to take a misstep.”  
Zadara leaned against the side, her attention on Falin.  
“Seems to me we have little choice but to head through Dragon's Bridge,” she remarked.  
“I hate both of you,” Falin declared but clearly she was done arguing for her alternate route.  
Perhaps she wasn't as crazy as she made herself out to be.

 

“Hello Arch Mage!”  
The usual sour shop keep's face lit up with that forced expression of welcome. Lilith attributed it to her reputation. Or else the gossip that had to stir at her miraculous reappearance. Coupled with Endarie's hunger for gossip and the superiority that came with knowing everything first.  
“Endarie,” Lilith greeted. “It has been awhile, has it not.”  
She painted her sickeningly sweet smile on her face, her lips hating her. Her face hating her.  
“Those gorgeous robes your shop provided have served me well.”  
“And are no doubt out of style,” Endarie sniffed, as if disgusted with herself.  
Out of style or no, the damn things had costed Lilith an arm and a leg.  
“I'm sure you, of all people, have heard of Vittoria's party,” Lilith eased into next.  
She gestured over her shoulder, indicating Serana who had seemed very content to remain hidden by Lilith even before they'd entered the shop. The vampiress was caught now, stunned and in the spotlight, her glowing eyes wide. Send the girl into a vampire castle and she could bluff like the best of them. Take her to get a new dress and she almost had a heart attack.  
“Both my associates and I are in need of something acceptable. I'm sad to admit that even I am aware that jaw dropping is near impossible on such short term.”  
Lilith hated dramatics but Dibella created them very nearly and so she pressed a hand against her forehead as if woozy.  
“I have only myself to blame, of course. As Arch Mage I must hold myself to certain standards but allowed them to slip. Curse my fascination with ancient artifacts.”  
Serana tensed. Lilith caught the movement, one eye drifting subtly to her, assuring her that Lilith hadn't lost her mind. Endarie's ears practically wiggled in excitement at the faintest hint of gossip. She grinned, attempting pleasant but the expression was all teeth.  
“I do hope you aren't dragging those fantastic robes into old ruins,” she mockingly scolded, as if she wasn't filing the mention of artifacts away to share with half the Hold. “But never fear, Milady.”  
She spread her arms wide, indicating the entire store, the circlets on the counter top glittering temptingly at their mistress's request it felt like.  
“Radiant Raiments is here to serve and we are always well stocked with the latest. No war will change that.”  
Lilith dropped her hand, excitedly rushing the counter as if she couldn't wait. Okay, she couldn't, picking up a golden circlet, the emerald gem glowing. She was a bit excited to dress up and dance amongst people who wanted to have a good time. Who over indulged in wine rather than blood and flesh of innocent mortals they deemed only cattle. Never mind her detestment for Vittoria.  
“Serana, come see,” Lilith insisted, waving the girl over.  
Serana approached, clearly hesitant, eyeing Endarie. She clearly did not have the love of shiny things Lilith did.  
“And your other associate will join us later?” Endarie remarked, eyeing Serana with just as much suspicion, her entire demeanor doing a 360.  
Serana clearly noticed the change, her gaze narrowing ever so slightly.  
“He will,” Lilith confirmed. “He is translating some notes at the moment and asked for silence.”  
“He?” Endarie repeated.  
Her face softened in a mask of pity that she clearly didn't feel. She was very good. Lilith almost wanted to encourage she take up the stage but didn't, remaining in the game.  
“The whole of Skyrim heard of your husband's death,” the shop keep said. “We mourn with you.”  
“It warms me to hear you say that,” Lilith replied.  
Yep, the ache was back in her chest. Farkas. She averted her eyes, wrangling her emotions back into their cage, swallowing a lump in her throat. Properly blank, she turned back to Endarie.  
“Not a day goes by that I do not miss him,” she confessed. “I hope he finds peace.”  
Endarie backed off, the decision obvious. She directed her gaze to the circlets, mumbling some insignificant details about them before the door opened behind them, another customer. Lilith wasn't fully aware, staring at the glittering gold before her. It was Serana's hand that brought her back, her gaze firm and grounding. Her eyes glittered as much as the circlets but with anger rather than enticement.  
“Say the word,” she whispered. “I'll tear her in half.”  
“Don't worry,” Lilith urged. “That's as bad as her bark gets.”  
Serana nodded, still looking incensed but removing her hand from Lilith's shoulder.  
“I feel like she's going to give me an ugly dress,” Serana confessed, changing the subject quickly.  
“Probably,” Lilith chuckled. “But don't worry. I have an eye for clothing.”

 

“You going at any time today, Maro?”  
The words were a taunt, meant to spur him into action. A worthwhile effort and one he should've heeded actually. He had his orders. Simple they were and he should've been off sooner. He'd stayed because of the rain. But the rain had stopped hours ago. Maybe he was just tired. Whatever had kept him had shaken itself off. Only for him to step from the outpost, rested and stiff, to see the Imperial City's favorite wild child riding in. And she spotted him, her face scrunching up as if she smelled something bad. Ah, yes, he'd most certainly soured their relationship slightly. Still, her familiar face made him grin as he approached, ignoring, for the moment, the wagon full of bereft looking folks, driven by a grim man. She jerked the reins, guessing his intent, stopped when he caught the harness, grinning up at her.  
“Hello Falin,” he greeted.  
Her green gaze glared down at him, as if she didn't realize she was giving him a reaction. He tugged gently at her boot, well away from the top. Their relationship had never been of a sexual or romantic nature. To do so would indicate he had any intention of changing that. Or so he assumed. She swung from one trigger to the next.  
“Skyrim agrees with you,” he remarked. “I worried you'd freeze in this weather. I am glad to see you so well.”  
Those lips twisted into a pout, her attention swiveling elsewhere.  
“Don't you have errands to run for your father?” she demanded.  
“I believe the gods put me on this path to cross with yours,” he retorted. “Of course they would compel me to wait.”  
She was glaring at him now.  
“What rubbish,” she said simply and he threw his head back, laughing loudly.  
A fact she didn't appreciate and he hurriedly suppressed his amusement, his gaze dropping to her boots again.  
“I am...sorry,” he said after a moment. “My father relies on me. And the Empire relies on him.”  
“My grandfather's life is at risk,” Falin replied simply but with severity. “And rather than hear me, you dismissed me.”  
“My father would've had you detained.”  
He lifted his gaze once more to hers.  
“I have no doubts Motierre is guilty,” he said. “Not now. I did a bit of digging. Trust me.”  
“Where is my grandfather?” Falin demanded.  
Their voices were low, conspiratorial.  
“Maro! Get moving!”  
The voice of his commanding officer made him jump and he threw a glance over his shoulder, surprised and unnerved to find the man glaring his way. He held up one finger before turning back to Falin.  
“He is safe,” he swore. “I swear to you he is.”  
“Gaius,” Falin objected, a warning in her tone.  
“I'm going to track down Motierre,” he hurriedly confessed. “When I find him, we can stop him. You need not be involved.”  
“He will never be safe so long as the Dark Brotherhood exists!” Falin hissed back.  
'They are a myth.”  
“I'm coming with you!” Falin insisted, sliding off her horse, nearly kicking him.  
“Falin, you know why you can't.”  
Gaius's voice was firm but gentle. He rested a hand on her shoulder, hoping to somehow prevent her from acting too rash.  
“I know about Vittoria's party. You need to be there.”  
“I didn't come to Skyrim for parties and merchant errands,” Falin reminded him.  
“You came to protect your grandfather. And I'm telling you that his personal guard is on it. We are doing our best. He is safe and will remain so. I swear to you.”  
She was silent, her eyes drilling into his.  
“I didn't want to pass through Dragon Bridge,” she confessed to him. “I didn't want to see you.”  
“Aren't you glad you did?” he asked, flashing her a smile.  
Falin didn't respond, throwing her arms around him, the hug tight. He hugged her back just as hard, though probably not for the same reasons.  
“No,” she admitted.  
She drew away, fixing him with a stern look.  
“Motierre is tricky,” she lectured him. “What if you get hurt?”  
“I won't,” he promised her. “Just you wait and see. The gods will watch over me.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Bishop is the ORIGINAL product of Bioware as he is a character in their game NeverWinter Nights. Bishop is also a character in the Skyrim Romance Mod and while he isn't owned by Mara, the mod is. The mod is pretty boss, as its one of the few out there focused solely on us gals, so still check it out but proceed with caution.

"Captain aboard!"  
The bellow was enough, bringing to attention the entirety of the crew. Thaille would have smirked if he hadn't been weighed down as he was, carrying his hulking mass across the deck. Yeah, as much as he was worried over her asking if Ashanti had returned to the ship, he was even more worried to see the little halfling without the mass of claws and fur. More so when he saw the lingering hints of either sickness or poison in her face.  
"Thaille!" she greeted, cheerful, throwing her arms open.  
He crossed his own, fixing her with a no nonsense look. She grinned in response.  
"I brought you a gift. Well, multiple gifts," she continued.  
"Where's Ashanti?" Thaille demanded, cutting straight through to the point.  
"Riften, if rumor is to be believed."  
The voice came from behind Falin, the redguard it belonged to stepping aboard at that moment. She smiled his way as she joined Falin at her side, extending a hand.  
"Zadara," she introduced herself.  
Thaille took her hand,returning the smile.  
"Thaille, First Mate at this ship."  
He was pleasant enough, for a second, before dropping into his usual hard ass tendencies.  
"Now, what is this about rumors?" he demanded.  
"He has a very one track mind," Falin grumbled to Zadara, as if Thaille couldn't hear her.  
He fixed her with a look but said nothing, lest she grab onto that as a means of avoiding answering his question.  
"We've heard talk of a lioness being displayed in Riften," Zadara explained. "Rumors we intend to investigate."  
"And you're not there because?" Thaille pressed, looking to Falin.  
"We liberated some slaves," Falin replied. "They're going to need help and homes. And Vittoria is throwing a party."  
"One she specifically waited to inform you of until you were away," Thaille remarked. "The bitch."  
"Oh, I intend to have some words," Falin assured him.  
"Pleasantly?"  
"Oh of course," Falin said. "What am I? A savage?"  
"Yes."  
Falin rolled her eyes now.  
"I didn't come aboard for sass," she informed him.  
She glanced Zadara's way.  
"Where's Bishop?"  
"Parking the wagon," Zadara replied. "By the windmill."  
Falin clapped her hands, drawing further attention from her crew, the likes of which had gone back to work.  
"Alright, anyone with a task that can wait, I want you to report to the windmill. Look for the grumpy Nord. There are former slaves with him. I want them cared for, fed and given warm places to sleep. Thaille,"  
She faced him again, her face, for once, serious.  
"Dip into my stash if needed," she instructed. "By end of day tonight, I want them clothed and any with so much as a cough seen by a healer."  
"Aye aye," he said with a nod.  
"When you find the grumpy Nord, bring him straight to my cabin," Falin instructed before taking hold of Zadara and dragging her into her cabin.  
Thaille watched them go before turning to the crew, clapping his meaty hands together.  
"Let's move you layabouts!" he bellowed. "You heard the captain!"

 

"He enrages you."  
Hekth had sat quietly across from him, the wine she'd poured for them both untouched. Neither seemed too invested in drinking at the time. Brynjolf was still fighting off sleep. Turns out, sleeping in the heart of an assassin nest was not encouraging. However, the rage still struggling to cool in his belly was Dyre, plain and simple. He'd never hated someone so much. He hated Mercer, yes, but for what the man had done to the Guild. For bankrupting and undermining the stability they'd had. It didn't make him want to eviscerate him. Dyre, well, he felt personally slighted. He hated the vampire and on one hand, he wanted the vampire to suffer. On the other, he wanted the leech dead. Dead and suffering, even though it made no sense. But he couldn't put his hatred into words, not to Hekth, lest he scare her off some way.  
"I could see it," Hekth continued. "When he spoke to you, he taunted you. There were subtle tells in your body language."  
She smirked a bit, a minuscule amount of pride in her gaze.  
"After so long as an assassin, I learn to recognize details and shifts."  
"He's bored is all," Brynjolf assured her. "Looking for entertainment in any form."  
"Another reason he wouldn't have made a good assassin," Hekth remarked. "He has no patience."  
"You can't keep him safe," Brynjolf declared. "He has enemies. Lilith, for one, is not happy you left him alive. Serana either."  
"So we should discard a valuable asset-"  
"He won't tell you anything."  
Brynjolf was confident in that.  
"You can torture him, physically, mentally. It doesn't matter. He has the assurance that ,monster or not, he holds the cards."  
"I still love him," Hekth declared.  
"No you don't."  
Her eyes widened at his declaration and her mouth opened, as if she was going to object. Brynjolf held up his hand, stopping her, his intent to finish saying his piece.  
"You love the boy he was. You remember when he was your son when you look at his face. But he's not. Not anymore."  
"He was good once," Hekth insisted.  
She sighed.  
"He would bring injured animals back, nurse them to health. He'd warm wine for those that fell sick. Would collect herbs and dry them in case anyone got sick. He didn't lose his way until-"  
She trailed off, her face falling in such a way as if she'd just hit a revelation.  
"Until?" Brynjolf prompted.  
"Until Kaya died," Hekth whispered. "He vanished not too long afterwards."  
"Kaya?"  
"There were three children in the Sanctuary. Dyre, Syra and Kaya."  
Her face twisted, as if she was drawing connections and they were most certainly not pleasant ones.  
“What's on your mind?” he asked, pressing her for information.  
He didn't particularly like being kept in the dark. Especially in regards to Dyre.  
“Kaya died in Skyrim,” Hekth admitted.  
Her voice was quiet, practically echoing in the silence between them. Brynjolf's mind scrambled for connections, for the relevance. But he didn't know Dyre, nor did he want to. He didn't know Kaya either. Hekth rose, fast, pacing now.  
“What does that have to do with anything?” Brynjolf inquired.  
“Kaya went on a job with her mother and was killed. Her mother dragged Kaya as far as she could but ultimately had to leave her body behind.”  
She made a noise, one that sounded somewhere between a grunt and a snort.  
“Dyre mourned her but his behavior was normal. I swear it was.”  
“Is it possible that Kaya may still be alive?” Brynjolf asked. “May be a vampire?”  
“I had my doubts. Her mother became adamant that our life was not one for children.,” she said. “But I never believed she'd turn against Sithis.”  
She sighed.  
“I need to ask the Night Mother,” she decided. “If Kaya lives, she will know.”  
“And if she isn't?” he pressed.  
“Then she will know where she's buried. Either way, I have a feeling Kaya may be a part of this mess.”  
“Or the key to fixing it.”  
She didn't respond but her look implied he should follow. Follow he did, close at hand, if only to avoid any assassins who may not have seen him the night before. Her room was far enough from the common rooms that they hadn't heard the screeching voice of an incredibly happy gesture, the likes of which bounced off the walls to greet them as soon as they were near enough.  
“Cicero is back,” Hekth hummed to herself. “With good news it seems.”  
Good news indeed. The jester in question was upon them as soon as they emerged, practically dancing in place while holding a square of elegant paper.  
“Didn't know you assassins employed jesters,” Brynjolf remarked to her.  
Hekth smirked dryly, plucking the paper from the jester's hand, allowing him to dance as he pleased. She studied the paper a brief moment and Brynjolf read over her shoulder, his eyebrows rising.  
“I also didn't know you to be the partying type.”  
“Perhaps,” Hekth said. “This is an occasion that it is best you remain unaware of.”  
He backed off then, catching her meaning. She, meanwhile, stepped forward, wrangling her jester to a stop.  
“Good work, Cicero,” she praised. “This invitation is but one more step towards our goal.”  
She looked to the seated redguard, Nazir, who paused in his efforts to tear apart what apparently was a stale piece of bread. She smirked at his efforts but didn't comment on them.  
“Have you managed to surface any more information about this wedding?” she asked him.  
Nazir smiled, one that was very smug and proud.  
“This engagement party is apparently a mere formality,” he informed her. “The wedding is being planned alongside it and is scheduled for a mere three days later.”  
Hekth chuckled.  
“The party isn't a formality. Its a smoke screen.”  
Her expression darkened.  
“It would seem they're onto us.”  
“You think?” Nazir asked.  
“An engagement party is much more chaotic than a wedding,” Hekth insisted. “So they know our intentions to assassinate. The question is do they know our target. And how?”  
She released Cicero, pacing the room, tapping the invitation to her chin.  
“It cannot be helped then,” she sighed after a good five minutes. “Cicero, you will be attending this party.”  
“Yay!” Cicero cheered, hopping happily.  
“Nazir, send word to Babette. I want her in Solitude. Just in case something goes wrong,” Hekth continued. “Where is Festus?”  
“Out stockpiling herbs,” Nazir reported.  
“When he gets back, I want a fresh stock of poisons,” she informed him.  
Without another word, she changed course, her steps carrying her to the Night Mother, Brynjolf in tow. And she paid him little to no mind, planting herself before the coffin and bowing her head, her posture one of reverence and respect.  
“I advise you to get comfortable,” Hekth said to him. “I am the Listener. She speaks, I listen. She knows what I seek and if I need to know it, then she will tell me.”  
“Oh, goodie,” Brynjolf sighed but he lowered himself beside her, preparing himself for a long wait.

 

The loud thump of books against the nightstand by her head had Lilith leaping up, ready to pounce. Miraak smirked her way, clearly amused, well out of reach of her lest she use magic. And as tempting as it was to hurl a fireball his way, he'd strategically placed himself in front of her dress. All it would take was him stepping aside and she would be down one rather pretty dress. Instead, she fixed him with a glare.  
“What?”  
“I'm not certain I appreciate the tone,” Miraak commented.  
“You just about killed me!” Lilith insisted. “Perhaps a sharp tone is acceptable retribution for that scare.”  
“Fair enough,” Miraak relented. “I shall also count it as my punishment for unfortunately being unable to translate any of these texts.”  
“What!?”  
Lilith scrambled to the copious amounts of aged paper and withering texts that they'd brought. And yes, there were hastily scrawled markings on each, evidence that Miraak had given it his best shot. But to think that he hadn't translated even a word. She looked at him, incredulous. He wasn't smirking now, his annoyance clear on his face. He'd failed and it didn't sit right with him.  
“I suspect whatever it was before, Dyre and Amarenthine scrambled it well and truly beyond recognition. Or else there's a cipher.”  
“By why this?” Lilith sighed. “Everything else has been so easy.”  
“Possibly because in the beginning, their paranoia was fresh and new,” Miraak reasoned. “As their arrogance grew, they believed their secrets would never be found.”  
“So this is quite possibly the first plot they concocted together?”  
If it was, that made it all the more valuable. At least to her.  
“Its not a plan.”  
Serana's presence was new. The vampire had returned, the bottle of spiced wine in her hand an indication that she'd been off wandering Solitude again this morning. Lilith hadn't even been aware of her absence and her return had been as quiet as the vampire usually was. She was looking at the papers that had slowly slipped from the table, one in hand in fact.  
“These are all written in one hand,” Serana observed. “I suspect Amarenthine. Dyre never seemed quite so skilled in languages. Either she's wrote her plans out and all the steps when she acted alone or else she was writing a journal.”  
Miraak breathed in audibly, the thought rooting itself in his mind.  
“It would stand to reason then why I didn't know it,” he said. “Amarenthine is older than even me. And you.”  
He gestured to Lilith now. She stared at the pages intently, as if that would crack the code.  
“There has to be someone who can read this!” she insisted.  
“Perhaps a dragon,” Serana suggested.  
“If you know where one is, do share,” Miraak requested.  
“So, this is it,” Lilith groaned, sitting on the bed. “After so long, we hit a dead end?”  
“Or an obstacle,” Serana pointed out. “If its her journal, the ruins may be where she stayed. Which means it makes sense for more of her stuff to be down there.”  
“Perhaps even a hint to what these papers mean,” Miraak added, getting her point in a second.  
“Are you certain Harkon wouldn't know about Amarenthine?” Lilith asked Serana.  
“Positive,” Serana confirmed. “He doesn't like to think anyone's stronger than him, likes to pretend he's indomitable. No way would he allow Amarenthine to be part of his court. Her mere presence would undermine him.”  
Lilith groaned, throwing herself back and covering her face with her hands.  
“This is ridiculous,” she grouched, her voice muffled.  
Serana glanced Miraak's way, exchanging a slightly amused glance.  
“Lilith, perhaps now that we've come to an end of sorts of materials to study, you can instead focus on this event coming up?” he suggested, his tone gentle. “I'm certain dealing with nobles is more pleasant than agonizing over your sister.”  
“It is,” Lilith admitted, her words muffled still.  
“We have dresses, Miraak has an appointment to meet with that unpleasant woman,” Serana reported.  
She held up the bottle of wine, not like Lilith could see it at the moment.  
“Want to drink a whole bottle of wine with me?”  
“I'm envious. A whole bottle of wine and I have to spend company with an unpleasant woman,” Miraak mock pouted.  
“We'll save you some,” Serana assured him, the flippancy with which she said that ensuring he wouldn't taste a drop.  
Miraak sighed and rolled his eyes, easily portraying a suffering man.  
“Alas, I suppose I'll be able to indulge myself at the party then,” he said, departing before they could respond.  
Serana rolled her eyes, a fact he missed, sitting on the bed and uncorking the wine.  
“Last chance, Arch Mage,” she said, shaking the bottle and letting the wine slosh against the sides.  
“We need cups,” Lilith declared, removing one hand.  
It was the only move she made and Serana knew she wasn't getting up. In her stead, she rolled off the bed, setting the wine well away from Lilith and leaving in search of the kitchen. The problem with castles, even the damnable one that had housed her family, was that they were all too big. Too easy to get lost in. Serana closed the door firmly behind her, her pace slowing as she went. She could hear the tell tale signs of court, worrying that her mere passing would disturb them and she'd be on display. Lurking by the columns, she peeked around, the court splayed before her. And she vaguely recognized the woman currently bowing before Elisif. Serana had only seen Vittoria once. The bride to be had been brisk in greeting Lilith when they'd first arrived, keeping up a mask of pleasant indifference until someone had demanded her attention and enabled her to slip away without staining her perfect facade of politeness. Now she wore no mask, her disdain clear on her face as she stared at Falin, a woman too unique for Serana to ever forget. Display be damned, she hurried forward, practically running, her speed enhanced by wisps of her vampiric nature. She only realized her error as she realized she'd hurried into the proceedings, skidding to a halt just shy of Falin herself. The surprise was evident in all save the mischievous mad woman. Her green eyes lit up with instant recognition, her grin eating up her face in a second.  
“Serana!” she said cheerfully, tilting her head a bit, tendrils of her loose red hair falling to the side, a blood red curtain hiding the instant shift of her eyes.  
The mischief was gone, all hints of amusement and madness gone in a second, replaced by suspicion and a lurking potential for danger.  
“Its been so long,” Falin continued, her voice light despite the murder in her eyes. “What in the name of the gods brings you to Solitude?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Bishop is the ORIGINAL product of Bioware as he is a character in their game NeverWinter Nights. Bishop is also a character in the Skyrim Romance Mod and while he isn't owned by Mara, the mod is. The mod is pretty boss, as its one of the few out there focused solely on us gals, so still check it out but proceed with caution.

She liked Skyrim. The wilderness never seemed tamed, even in the Holds that boasted civilization. It always made her smile, the natural feeling. Odd, seeing as she was such an unnatural being. Such was the life of a vampire after all. Behind her, she heard Brynjolf swear, no doubt his boots sinking in the mud again.  
“Language,” she playfully scolded over her shoulder.  
“If you'd told me Morthal, I would've gone with your jester fellow,” Brynjolf griped. “At least Solitude parties have good food.”  
“Good wine too I suspect,” Hekth remarked, poking at his grumpiness.  
“You want me to abandon you in a swamp, don't you?” he asked.  
Hekth chuckled, her gaze searching the expanse of land spread out before them, the mist hanging low, disguising the mangled forms of trees surrounded by flourishing death bell flowers. Hekth admired the deep violet that persisted even in the already dark settings.  
“Why would the Night Mother send you here?” Brynjolf asked.  
“I've learned not to question the Night Mother,” Hekth replied. “Its not the Listener's place.”  
She paused, catching the faintest ghost of sound, her hand out, stopping Brynjolf. He fell silent, still, impressively so. He had more skill than she often gave him credit for. Hekth closed her eyes, focused, her enhanced hearing an asset yes, but a disadvantage as she had to sort through the sounds of scurrying spiders, nesting mudcrabs and the other sounds of the swamp. Hekth turned in the direction of the stray sound, opening her eyes, her night sight piercing the night veil. And indeed, ahead, she could see them. Vampires. There was no doubt about it, the way they stalked the marsh similar to her own prowling. And if she could see them and hear them, they could as well. Though they weren't hunting her. Realization dawned on her, her gaze flashing to Brynjolf. He was watching her, waiting for a cue to talk no doubt. Hekth swore internally, a part of her forgetting that he was indeed human. She leaned close, hoping that her sharp hearing was in part to her years of training.  
“Vampires,” she breathed, the words barely able to be called a whisper.  
He got the message, his eyes widening. Hekth was glad for his competence, watching him draw out a sword rather than the usual dagger he would've palmed. No doubt the vampires had been aware of her, their aimless wandering becoming suddenly purposeful. Hekth watched them still, their speed picking up, carrying them through the swamp and towards her and Brynjolf.  
“Here they come,” she alerted Brynjolf to their presence, tensed and ready, her hand automatically going for the dagger at her belt.  
It never made it, a rough hand wrapping tight around her wrist. Hekth turned, surprised, the bulky Breton behind her surprising to say the least. He grinned, flashing fang, the subtle tells in his face, the ashen pallor of his face revealing that he was significantly older than she was in vampire terms. Hekth launched into an attack, breaking his grip on her wrist, her elbow shoved back forcefully into his gut. It did little to wind him, which was not her intent. It did, however, gain her some space to move. She went low, drawing her dagger. The older vampire responded in turn, showing his clear grasp of close combat as he narrowly dodged a cut that she'd intended to utilize to undermine his stance, cutting through his knee of course. He had no weapon, no magic graced his finger tips either. He instead chose to lash out with bare knuckles that moved as fast as a spell, catching her on her chin. The force behind it actually stunned her as did his succession of follow up punches, each one landing where he intended, her head spinning until she found herself face down in the muck, lifting herself from the confines and struggling to comprehend each move. And the Breton stood over her, giving her that time it seemed. Hekth didn't focus on him too intently, her gaze dancing to Brynjolf. One vampire, no doubt a young one, lay dead at his feet. The other, however, was proving to be a match, probably trained to some measure in direct combat. She almost smirked, knowing Brynjolf could at least hold his own. He'd made a career of avoiding direct combat. She, meanwhile, turned a dark eye to the Breton, relying on long buried street fighting, lunging for his legs. He hadn't expected it, that was for sure. Hekth buried her fangs in the soft flesh of his upper thigh, biting hard. It gained her a slim measure of advantage and she threw her body on his, tackling him into the water, his body thrashing even before they sunk below the shallow murky depths. Hekth kept her eyes closed, the Breton's fingers at her eyes, trying to poke them out of their sockets. She didn't need her sight to know well a mortal's body, her long nails digging deep into the flesh at his throat, the tell tale feel of blood smoothing over her fingers as she broke skin. Possibly sensing he was losing, the Breton gave one desperate move, drawing his knees upwards, bringing his legs between them, thrusting with all his strength and sending her careening off him and out of the water. She gasped, a reflex really, gulping air she didn't quite need. The Breton was on her in a second, rage clear in his face, slamming her into the mud of the banks, effectively pinning her. His bulk wasn't one she could easily buckle, given that he surpassed her vampiric strength. A strength that had overtaken Brynjolf it seemed. Hekth, despite her incapacitation, could see him, squirming in the grip of the vampire he'd been fighting. His opponent was not without damage, she was sure. She focused now on the Breton, sliding her features into an undiscernable expression.  
“Very well,” she said. “You caught us. Now what are you planning to do with us.”

 

Falin was back aboard her boat, naive and hyper, waiting for them to be back on the open ocean, not quite realize that in mere seconds, she would be face to face with Tamriel's Arch Mage. As well as one of its Dragonborn. And truly, she wished nothing more than to rewind time and be back there. But she wasn't. Instead she stood in one of the nicer rooms in the Blue Palace, squaring her shoulders and trying to appear intimidating as she listened to Lilith explain the very question she'd asked Serana. The vampire was perched in a comfortable chair and Miraak, well, he stood just behind Serana, trying to appear imposing but Falin had long since been cured of any fears she had in regards to a fully grown Nord. Idly, as Lilith had gone on a bit of a tangent, Falin let her attention further wander. The other two had seemed to check out as well, so clearly Lilith had a tendency to rant for however knows long. Her green eyes flitted first to the scraps of paper that were spread at the edge of the bed, the scrawled letters ones that she couldn't read but recognized. Completely forgetting that Lilith was still speaking, she stepped forward, lifting one of the papers. Her eyes skimmed the page, tracing each letter, ignorant to the dead silence in the room.  
“Uh, Falin.”  
Serana chose to approach her, overcoming whatever surprise had stunned the trio as soon as Falin had made her move. Falin looked up from the page.  
“You know this is Daedric writing correct?” she asked, flashing them the page.  
“What?” Lilith exclaimed, tearing her way across her bed. “That's impossible.”  
“I would think someone of Lilith's background could read Daedric text,” Miraak remarked, his words not snide but mere pointing out a fact.  
“I'm sure,” Falin remarked. “Except whoever wrote these pages didn't just write in Daedric text. They also wrote backwards. And upside down.”  
As if to prove her point, Falin turned the page upside down, pointing it at the sole mirror in the room. Lilith's jaw dropped.  
“Falin, you are brilliant!” Lilith cheered, leaping off the bed, practically tackling the smaller halfling as she tore the page from her hands.  
She bounded to the mirror, reading the glorious words that now made sense. For the most part at least. There were a few phrases that stuck out, ones that didn't make sense or that she couldn't quite translate. But a word or two missing, well, that helped.  
“So, why are you here?” Falin asked, making certain to direct her question at Serana.  
“A party,” Serana replied.  
“Ah, I forget sometimes you're Arch Mage,” Falin admitted, now addressing Lilith.  
The elf made a face at her and Falin simply grinned back.  
“That doesn't quite explain why you're a vampire, however.”  
Serana's eyebrows rose, no doubt surprised that Falin had notice with how little she'd actively been observing Lilith. The halfling so did enjoy surprising people.  
“I'm undercover,” Lilith explained.  
“Investigating vampires?”  
“Dyre hid himself amongst a clan to the north,” Serana explained, glossing over a host of details.  
“As I recall, you left this Dyre alive,” Falin pointed out. “Why not interrogate him?”  
“Like he'll tell the truth,” Miraak huffed.  
“One thing I've learned is that men enjoy talking about themselves. More to the point, bragging,” Falin retorted. “Powerful ones especially. That he won't spill his guts to you just means you're not asking the right questions.”  
Her words were followed by silence, those who had questioned Dyre going over the mix of questions they had asked him, pondering what they possibly could've failed to ask. Falin, meanwhile, studied them. She would've had to be deaf to ignore the rumors that surrounded Lilith and her disappearance. She'd given them little merit, knowing why Lilith had vanished but also that she was alive. But she knew well that the Companions had buried one of their own. More to the point, they'd buried Lilith's husband, Farkas. She could see that pain, that ghost of loss, on the woman's face. It was eerie to see that it had been present long before her husband had died however. She'd hinted at a long life, the specifics of which Falin did not know. Clearly it had been a long life of saying goodbye. Her eyes trailed to Miraak. He leaned against the chair Serana sat in, one hand holding his built body up. One hand that very carefully did not touch Serana. He was being too obvious in his endeavor not to touch her casually and Serana smiled at that, realizing that in his mind, even if he fought against it, she was his. But no such agreement had been struck between them and so he made certain that he didn't overstep. It spoke of happier times as opposed to the sorrow present in Lilith. She liked that. Preferred it really.  
“So, Syra is still gone, huh?” Falin asked, abruptly drawing them all back.  
“Indeed she is,” Miraak replied, snapping up the subject as if he was a starving man and it was a nibble of bread.  
“My traveling companion informed me that the dragons were still gone,” Falin continued. “Skyrim must be happy.”  
“You'd think so,” Lilith chuckled. “But there is still a war to be had.”  
“A war on pause because of your sister and Dyre's actions,” Falin summed up.  
Lilith sighed, setting down the pages she was holding up to the letter.  
“We're looking to right the wrongs my sister put in play, alright?” Lilith said.  
Falin said nothing, studying her with a blank expression.  
“Well good luck then, Arch Mage,” she said, her tone dismissive.  
She sat on the edge of the bigger bed, settling in.  
“I actually have more to discuss with you. A letter if you will,” she said.  
“A letter?” Lilith repeated in confusion.  
“A letter of recommendation,” Falin explained. “For attendance into your illustrious college.”  
“For yourself?” Lilith asked. “I think after you show them your particular brand of magic, they'll welcome you with open arms.”  
“Not me. A child named Sissel,” Falin clarified. “She's been studying under an older mage privately. An option no longer possible. I want her to continue her education however and the college is the only place that is an option.”  
“We don't really accept children,” Lilith said.  
“But you're the Arch Mage and so it is as simple as making it a special request.”  
Falin smirked, clearly ready with a wide repertoire of arguments and retorts to any objections Lilith could come up with. Lilith sighed.  
“Very well,” she relented. “You say her name is Sissel?”  
Falin nodded.  
“She is my adopted daughter,” Falin offered for clarification. “Very bright. She'll be replacing you in no time.”  
“You didn't even know I was here,” Lilith observed. “And yet you came here armed with a list of arguments prepared.”  
“For the court mage,” Falin admitted. “Sometimes I warm her bed. Or she warms mine. I figure that had long since earned me a favor.”  
“The court mage?” Lilith sputtered. “You know she's a -”  
“Vampire? Oh of course,” Falin assured her. “But its never stopped me before.”  
She hopped off the bed, satisfied she'd secured Lilith's services.  
“You may deliver it to my ship, if needed. I'm sure you remember the one. I doubt I'll be leaving it much,” she called over her shoulder, heading out the door.  
Her departure left a profound silence in its wake, one Serana punctuated with a snort.  
“Someone has allowed her to adopt a child,” she announced. “I almost don't believe it.”  
“The world is a strange, mad place indeed,” Miraak agreed, understanding the hidden meaning in her words.  
Lilith shook her head but returned her attention to the mirror, the key to unlocking the words.  
“Upside down and backwards,” Lilith mumbled, mostly to herself. “Just like the mad god himself.”  
She sighed deeply, a mournful sound.  
“What is it?” Miraak asked.  
“I'd kill to talk to Sheogorath,” Lilith confessed in response. “Beneath it all, the madness and indifference, he is still the Hero of Kvatch. He loved her once.”  
“You believe love conquers all? Even ultimate power?”  
Miraak's voice was laced with doubt. Lilith faced him fully.  
“You would know better than I,” she retorted.  
Miraak made a face at her, one that mixed his displeasure at the reminder with a scowl of discontentment.  
“The price for the power I was awarded was too high,” he grouched. “The choice to turn my back on it all was an easy one.”  
“But you're free now,” Lilith pointed out. “Syra is gone which means Nithrogr is as well. With little guarantee she's coming back. What could possibly stop you from making another play for power?”  
She watched him closely, his face turning to stone beneath her gaze, his unwillingness to let her see past the defenses he kept up persisting.  
“I am powerful, Miraak,” Lilith announced. “My power near limitless. I know spells long lost. Little can kill me. I could bring this world to its knees if I truly wished. But I don't. Because in every century, I reach out, I find people I love and care about. And who feel the same about me.””  
Miraak stepped forward now.  
“That did not stop you,” he declared. “You admitted to conspiring with the very being we seek to stop. You altered the flow of events for your own selfish purposes, for your father.”  
“What was done to him was wrong!” Lilith objected.  
“What you are is wrong.”  
His words gave her pause, something that would've been a slap in the face if she was under the illusion that Miraak liked her. They hurt, true, but not with the stinging force that hearing them from, say, Syra would produce. She lifted her chin, hiding that hurt, hiding behind a mask of cold indifference.  
“Be that as it may,” she said, trying very hard not to grit her teeth. “I am doing what I can, the best way I know how, to set to right the wrongs. To make up for mistakes made by myself and my parents. And in order to do so, I need you.”  
She forced her gaze to Serana. Clearly the course of the conversation had thrown her, her eyes wide, a hint of sympathy in their depths directed at Lilith. No doubt, she believed Miraak to be out of line.  
“Now then, if you'll excuse me. I have a letter to write. And a court to attend to.”  
She set down the page she held, scooping up a stray collection of parchment,pen and ink well before making a dignified exit. Serana waited, perched on her chair. Part of her contemplated going after Lilith but she was terrible at comforting people. Confronting people, however. As soon as the door closed behind the elf, Serana rose, turning and glaring at Miraak. He seemed surprised and she realized she'd been moving with inhuman speed.  
“You were out of line,” she scolded him.  
“Oh, was I?”  
She realized, in all their banter, that he'd never truly put up his defenses. She hadn't been able to imagine them but now she found herself face to face with them, his expression guarded from her. He put his arms behind his back, the likes of which was ramrod straight as his mismatched eyes fixated on her. He looked dangerous. It dawned on her then. Without moving, he very well could tear her apart, uttering only words. The same thing she heard people whispering about as they passed each other on the streets, the death unbelievable even to those who'd grown up hearing the tales that featured the Thu'um and its power. Despite that frightening realization, she wasn't afraid. She knew without a shadow of doubt that he would not hurt her. And yet, making the threat or rather implying that he would, well that made her mad. Even if he'd only done it unconsciously.  
“Lilith's actions were for her father. They were selfless. Yours on the other hand were for yourself.”  
His eyes narrowed, the only sign of his displeasure. Serana had never truly expressed whether or not she judged his actions. And honestly, had never thought about it before. Or else she had and had dismissed the notions. But now she threw his own failure in his face.  
“You wanted power and when you got it, you weren't happy with the result. It wasn't what you wanted,” Serana continued, voice level. “In your shoes, I would like to think I wouldn't follow the same path. In Lilith's shoes, I'd like to think that I could let a father who loved me rot where he was, if only to save innocents the fate that would await them. But even then, even with innocent lives in the cross fire, I don't think I could.”  
She was surprised to find the words she was blurting weren't just pretty lies. They were the truth. Miraak was still unreadable, his eyes distant. He was anywhere else but right in front of her. And it irked her more. She wanted to yell, scream at him. But she had no real cause. So she left, every step out of the room measured. She forced herself not to look back, safe only when she closed the door.

 

He'd only recently noticed the sly glances the crew were throwing him. For a bit, he'd ignored them. He had better things to do, helping settle the mob of people they'd brought with them. Last he'd heard, they'd settled in below decks, in the bunks of the crew, none ready just yet to brave Solitude and its lot. Bishop didn't blame them. He leaned against the door to the captain's cabin, the action bringing alert stares. As if they thought he'd burst in? Insulting actually. He'd helped haul the wooden tub into the spacious cabin, had helped carry the water and had been the first out when they finished so Zadara could bathe. He lifted his chin, stubbornly, daring one of them to say something but none met his challenge, the lot of them going about their work. The first mate, Thaille, a hulking redguard joined him at his side.  
“Sour face there,” he remarked. “Might get stuck like that.”  
“I welcome it,” Bishop grouched.  
Thaille snorted a laugh, crossing his arms.  
“They stare because they're trying to figure out why Falin is dragging you around,” he informed him.  
“I think that's a lie,” Bishop admitted.  
“It is,” was Thaille's response.  
His warm eyes had darkened, fixing on Bishop.  
“What you have to understand is that girl is very precious to us. And yeah, she has a tendency to bounce from bed to bed as it suits her fancy. Doesn't mean we have to like it or approve of a lad or lass that would fall for her charms,” he explained.  
“So, you lot are sizing me up?” Bishop mused.  
He almost laughed. Of course, a laugh might summon a rather feisty crew. That thought was only a bit terrifying.  
“She and I didn't sleep with each other,” Bishop declared. “She's not my type.”  
Thaille snorted.  
“Hasn't stopped men before,” he said.  
He pointed one meaty finger at Bishop, his voice low and menacing.  
“That bundle of crazy is important to our lot. If you mess with her, we will mess with you.”  
The cabin door opened then, sending Bishop toppling backwards into the space, courtesy of Zadara. She winked at Thaille, her smile pleasant.  
“I'll be needing him now,” she said. “I swear I'm absolutely lost when it comes to my hair without him around.”  
This all said as she kicked at Bishop, urging him to crawl out of the way so she could close the door again. And she did just that, talking over any of Thaille's surprised objections, locking the door in place. Bishop glared at her from the floor, arms crossed.  
“Was that necessary?” he demanded.  
“I feared for your safety,” Zadara replied.  
She was out of the armor she'd been wearing nearly since day one, comfortably wearing what was clearly from one of the crew men. The shirt hung loose on her and she'd tucked much of it into the form fitting pants that had been provided, the likes of which were a shades lighter than her own toned skin. All in all, she looked good, the outfit revealing curves he hadn't quite noticed she'd had. As well as muscles. Bishop gave a low whistle, one that had Zadara glaring at him.  
“Did you really pull me in here because you needed help with your hair?” he asked, not moving.  
“Do you think I did?” she retorted, already starting on her hair, revealing the truth.  
At least to him.  
“Thanks.”  
His words were small but he knew she heard, turning back to the mounted mirror she was sitting at.  
“You can bathe now, if you want,” she said over her shoulder.  
Bishop couldn't help but watch her fingers weaving through her hair, the intricate braid that usually looked incredibly complicated forming beneath her skilled hands.  
“I'll even go pull up some water for you.”  
“If I want to bathe, I'll just jump into the water,” Bishop replied, turning her down.  
Zadara smirked.  
“You really don't let anyone do anything nice for you, do you?” she asked.  
“Force of habit,” Bishop admitted. “People rarely have nice intentions.”  
“People can surprise you,” Zadara argued.  
“They haven't yet.”  
She rolled her eyes in exasperation but didn't say anything further. Didn't get the chance really. The door opened and Falin bustled in, breezing past them both. She made for the chest pushed under the trio of windows across the room, throwing it open. It creaked and puffed open with a layer of dust swirling in its wake.  
“I can see its been awhile,” Bishop remarked.  
“I rarely attend parties,” Falin replied, addressing them finally.  
She reached into the depths of the chest, pulling out a mass of blue fabric, draping it rather carelessly over the back of the nearby chair.  
“Pretty,” Zadara remarked dismissively.  
“You don't have to tell me,” Falin assured her. “Most of these dresses are nightmares. Stuffed away with half assed promises to of course wear them to parties in foreign lands.”  
She threw aside another horrid mess of a dress, this one an unflattering yellow. Even Bishop made a face.  
“Every designer and their cousin wants to dress me,” Falin stated, not bragging. “Do they take the time to see if it looks flattering? Of course not! They find what they consider their masterpiece and thrust it upon me.”  
She huffed a bit, tossing aside another dress. This one missed the chair completely, fluttering to the floor.  
“Something is wrong, isn't it?” Zadara guessed.  
Falin sighed, facing them, leaning against the chest as she sat.  
“I hate Solitude,” she declared. “I hate the attitude overall regarding this war. I hate that its so easily dismissable back home in the Imperial City. I hate that people act like just because the rebels odds seem to be slim, it means that the loses don't matter. Solitude is worse because they are in the heart of it all. They house the invading army and yet, they're throwing a party. And I have to put on a pretty dress and a smile and go greet the woman at the center of it all as if I'm happy.”  
“Want me to go with you?” Zadara asked.  
“I do but I have a pretty clear understanding that the Thalmor are outsourcing minions to ensure that Talos has no place in he wedding. I think they just want first dibs on good wine,” she said.  
Bishop let out a long suffering groan, sitting up.  
“Okay, here me when I say this. I will never again get involved with politics and the like but think about it,” he urged. “Right now, Zadara's an unknown and it works to their advantage. No one knows her. If she vanished tomorrow, no one would question it.”  
“Gee, thanks,” Zadara said sarcastically.  
Bishop made a face back at her.  
“Presenting Zadara to the nobility makes her someone. She'd be an ally to Imperial aligned citizens. People that are under the Thalmor's thumb. If she suddenly died or went missing, it would raise a lot of questions.”  
“He's...actually got a point,” Zadara admitted, seeming genuinely surprised.  
“It could be dangerous,” Falin pointed out, looking between them.  
“I've been in danger since I came to Skyrim,” Zadara replied.  
“And I've been in danger since I met you two,” Bishop added.  
They disregarded his statement completely, smirking at each other a bit.  
“So, let's go play pretend, shall we?” Zadara asked.  
“Let's.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Bishop is the ORIGINAL product of Bioware as he is a character in their game NeverWinter Nights. Bishop is also a character in the Skyrim Romance Mod and while he isn't owned by Mara, the mod is. The mod is pretty boss, as its one of the few out there focused solely on us gals, so still check it out but proceed with caution.

“Swamp vampires,” Brynjolf sighed.  
He still didn't seem to grasp it, spending the hours they'd wasted within the confines of their cage puzzling it over. Hekth found it mildly amusing, if a bit distracting, as she stood at the cage's front, daring the younger of this vampiric hoard to meander near her. They cowered instead, treating her to the same wide berth they gave their handler. It seemed to be the only thing he did, keeping them from fighting with each other whenever he drifted into Hekth's line of sight. He eyed her then, wary, seeing her for the threat she was. And when he retreated, as she liked to call it, she observed his charges. A few of the vampires were aged, none older than a hundred if she was a good judge of behavior.  
“I'd believe it,” she said over her shoulder. “There are many different vampires. I read once of a clan of vampire that could turn into mist.”  
“The Keerilth.”  
The old vampire was back, his movements quiet. As she had expected, smiling just a bit as she lifted her chin. He had a few years on her, perhaps a decade or two at most, but she doubted there was little he could do that she could not. Knowing the general tricks was an advantage. But if she could guess his age, there was little chance he could not guess hers.  
“I hunted one or two, when I was mortal.”  
He certainly was an observant monster, his dark eyes a pit as he studied her. There was no curiosity, no smug satisfaction. There was only a vast emptiness. Of course, it was nothing she had not once stared into. She felt no fear and no doubt it confused him just a tad. It was rather entertaining, knowing she'd surprised him. He looked away, the movement revealing a scar on his cheek. Hekth's eyebrows rose, not surprised that he had a few surprises of his own.  
“Movarth Piquine.”  
The words cascaded from her lips, the result near devastating as that hand shot out, catching her by the throat before she could react. Her head snapped back, the whiplash that resulted stunning.  
“How do you know my name?” he snarled, his face a terrifying map of viciousness.  
It was an unexpected change and she instantly regretted letting those words slip from her mouth. Had she known the resulting trigger, she would've remained silent. Her chance to answer was greatly affected, his grip absolute. She heard Brynjolf behind her, moving, an act she'd advised against. And when she saw him join her at the cage front, right at her side, in Movarth's reach, she wanted to slap him.  
“Her son,” he said, the lies slipping past his lips as easy as Movarth's name had slipped her own. “You probably know him.”  
Those dark eyes shifted to Brynjolf.  
“Talk fast, mortal,” he snarled, his fangs showing ever so slightly.  
“His name is Dyre,” Brynjolf obliged.  
Dyre's name was the trick, the surprise clear on Movarth's face as it settled there, the first expression he'd allowed to express itself fully. He released Hekth and Brynjolf pulled her away from the bars. She did not want to guess at the marks that had to have been left on her throat.  
“That mongrel is your son?” he asked.  
“Regrettably,” Hekth replied.  
She straightened, refusing to show weakness.  
“He was rather naughty as of late. He has been punished. Now we seek to track down his compatriot.”  
“Why?” Movarth demanded.  
Hekth smiled.  
“To do as any mother would and punish them,” she answered.  
Her answer satisfied him, she could tell. Hints of amusement appeared in the lines on his face. But she could see he wanted more, before even entertaining the idea of freeing them. Hekth stepped forward again, giving Brynjolf a subtle tap, urging him behind her again. He obeyed, albeit reluctantly. As if he could protect her. The sentiment was rather adorable.  
“Dyre lives for now,” she confessed. “I believe the key to making him talk is a Dunmer name Kaya. She is what we sought when we came to Morthal.”  
There was movement behind him, the subtlest movement and he heeded it, the glow of her eyes in the brief darkness a telltale sign that she was a vampire. Hekth recognized her from Morthal, a glimpse she'd only gotten in passing. No words passed between them and yet a message did. Movarth stepped away, sparing neither a glance or a word for his prisoners as he joined the Nord, ushering her away. Hekth tsked, turning to Brynjolf. He was still watching where the two had vanished, a dark hint to his gaze that could've been fear or anger at the obvious dismissal.  
“You lied,” Hekth observed.  
“I remember months ago, you kept sending letters, asking for books. I recall sending one. Immortal Blood, it was called,” Brynjolf replied.  
“The scar is what revealed him to me,” Hekth confessed. “On top of all the evidence. His skill in the swamp was the biggest indicator, if I'm being honest.”  
Brynjolf settled back on the floor, looking a bit smug. Hekth was suspicious now, not quite sure she was quite ready for him to be so satisfied with himself. They were in a cage after all.  
“How did you think to use Dyre's name?” she pressed.  
“Dyre seems to have his hand in everyone's pocket,” Brynjolf admitted. “Plus remember that pin that Dyre wore? That we got our hands on when he tried attacking Riften?”  
“I believe it was dismissed as a random trinket given to him by Molag Bal,” Hekth recalled.  
“If it was so random, why was Movarth wearing one as well?”  
Brynjolf's words rocked her as she realized she hadn't noticed that. She'd been swept away by the man's eyes, the expressionless face he presented and the emotions he kept under wraps.  
“Truly, I did not notice,” she admitted.  
“There's a connection between him and Dyre,” Brynjolf declared, throwing speculation out the window entirely. “And if there's a connection there, there may also be one between Kaya and Movarth.”  
“A connection we must find,” Hekth agreed. “Carefully.”

 

A child meant a measure of sympathy. Or else the small girl was merely to keep him in line. Cicero practically squirmed in excitement, odd looks being cast at him from all directions. Babette rolled her eyes but didn't remark on his behavior. She knew very well how to play the role of a child, keeping a small hand on Cicero's shirt. To anyone it would simply look as though she didn't want to lose him. Solitude was indeed full of people. However, anyone with a sharp eye could see how she directed him as they walked. He admired how effortlessly she cast the illusion.  
“Mhm, should we go to the palace?” he asked her, the excitement making him want to dance.  
Babette sensed his intentions and fixed him with a look.  
“No, no need for us to draw too much attention to ourselves,” she said.  
She stopped talking, guiding him to the inn keeper. She was tense and on edge, the stress in her hand even if it remained near effortlessly off her face, her features arranging themselves in a carefully controlled smile for the innkeeper, hiding any trace of the fangs she usually flashed with pride. Of course, that usually was to inspire fear.  
“Papa,” Babette said with a voice oozing with innocence. “We've been on the road all day.”  
She added a touch of a young whine, a grating sound that had Cicero furrowing his brow a smidge. Their interaction must have been authentic enough. The innkeeper chuckled, shaking his head.  
“I've got one room left,” he confessed. “Big party going on at the Blue Palace tomorrow.”  
“We're guests,” Babette happily informed him.  
She feigned excitement, her hand leaving his shirt, bunching into a fist.  
“Its suppose to be a really fun party,” she bragged. “With good food!”  
The innkeeper laughed aloud, drawing a few stray glances.  
“Best rest up then,” he urged. “These noble parties have been known to get wild.”  
Babette looked at Cicero, smiling wide, her fangs yet to make an appearance.  
“Hurry and get the room, Papa,” she encouraged.  
All the while, she never broke character, her mannerisms as a child faced vampiric assassin camouflaged behind the charade of an eager child. It was eerie. A sane thought. Annoyance made its way onto Cicero's face as he handed over coin. The innkeeper, blessedly oblivious, tucked the coin away, blathering on about all manner of nonsense as he led them to their room. Babette fisted his shirt again, guiding him less now that they had someone to follow. He knew she was scanning the room, taking note of the nobles that meandered in the spacious room, drinking and enjoying the solo bard. He allowed his gaze to stray as well, drawn to a window. Its how he spotted her in fact. The little mad woman from the fight ring. It was the quickest of glances, one that had him practically skidding to a halt, his gaze zoning in on her before she was gone. Babette was not gentle in getting him moving again, no doubt not appreciating his unexpected stop. And as bad as Cicero wanted to stay where he was, just in case, he obeyed her unspoken order, continuing on to their room.

 

The goblet slipped from her hand, her gaze falling on her cousin, in some way or another. Indeed, she hadn't expected the mutt to show up. She'd specifically kept silent about the party and wedding when she'd hosted the girl to keep her from attending, to perhaps scandalize her family into recluse, if only to keep the attention on her and what would be her marital bliss and her first trip to the Imperial City in so many years. Yet here strolled the mutt, impeccably draped in a green gown, the likes of which was clearly from the Imperial City. A feat Vittoria had been unable to manage, even for her wedding dress.  
“Oh, Falin!” she managed to blurt out, stepping around the carefully set table to greet the approaching halfling.  
She threw her arms open, approaching the girl.  
“How was your excursion, darling? I hope Skyrim has treated you well?” she asked.  
“Not over yet,” Falin confessed, her tone overly sweet. “I so love Skyrim's wild side but I simply could not miss your party!”  
She was good. For all the talk, the whispers that she was a savage through and through, well, Falin clearly knew how to put up a pretty front. She held as much love for Vittoria as Vittoria felt for her. There was the subtle flicker of those green eyes, darting away and darting back before Vittoria could follow her gaze.  
“I see you're still picking out wine,” Falin remarked, completely disregarding Vittoria's half hearted attempt at a hug.  
The snub did not go unnoticed, Vittoria's lady servant's lips puckering just a bit.  
“Ah yes,” Vittoria said, a gentle hand out to clue in the servant.  
She reorganized her features back into a blank and obedient expression, awaiting orders.  
“I decided that with so many guests already here, I'd simply have my wedding a few nights after the party,” she confessed.  
Falin smiled, taking hold of Vittoria's hands, giving them a gentle squeeze.  
“Oh, how smart,” she gushed. “I'm so glad I didn't miss it! I was so unsure we'd make it back in time.”  
“We?” Vittoria repeated, latching onto that one word.  
Oh by the gods, what manner of beast or feral woodsman had the mutt dragged with her. The door behind Falin opened again and Vittoria hurriedly glanced over Falin's shoulder, gaze falling instantly on an impressively tall redguard. Her chestnut hair was braided on top of her head and she wore a pale gold dress, the sleeves of which draped off her shoulders. She looked refined, comfortable, like a lady of leisure. However, the muscles revealed by the dress boasted of a life with some sort of weapon in hand and plenty of time in the sun, if the lack of deviance between her skin color and the tan she possessed was anything go by. Falin extended a hand to indicate her guest.  
“I would love to present Lady Zadara of the Isles,” she announced, her voice casual.  
“The Isles?” Vittoria repeated, her first instinct to glance at Minnya.  
Minnya being the Thalmor agent, a woman of actual taste as opposed to her usual snooty compatriots. It was not lost on her that Minnya was alerted to Zadara's presence, rising from her chair when she'd previously been happily distracted sampling the finest wines Vittoria could get her hands on. She approached, her expression sour. Falin wasn't concerned at the expression, looping her arm through Zadara's.  
“Summerset Isles,” Falin clarified. “She was adopted by a former Justicar.”  
“And how did she come to be in your company.”  
Minnya's tone was ice, but she feigned casual pleasantness, her eyes solely on Zadara. Falin's smile remained pleasant. Zadara, meanwhile, lifted her chin in response to Minnya's presence, defiant and strong.  
“We met on the road,” Zadara explained. “I was traveling to Solitude, actually. I heard about your party and figured perhaps I could make the acquaintance of a few nobles, even if I wasn't able to attend the event itself.”  
She smiled.  
“We are simply thick as thieves at this point,” she said, casting a smile at her and Falin's entwined arms, drawing Minnya's attention to it.  
There was a dark expression in those eyes, annoyance and hostility within them. Vittoria chose to blissfully ignore the tension, taking a gentle, and hopefully unoffensive, grip on Minnya's arm.  
“Well, the more the merrier,” she decided. “You seem to have a good head on your shoulders! Perhaps you can keep my cousin out of trouble.”  
She guided Minnya away, intent to return to the wine she'd so hurriedly abandoned. Confident they were out of earshot, Falin angled her head upwards at Zadara, smiling a bit.  
“Think we should tell her about the assassins?” she asked.  
“Maybe save it for the wedding toast,” Zadara retorted, her body relaxing.  
“You okay?” Falin inquired, genuinely concerned.  
“The worst is over now,” Zadara replied. “I hope.”

 

The roar overhead chilled her just a bit. It was the surprise element to it, the sheer fact that prior to it, she had no warning, no indication that she was not alone. It was rather tedious,being prey. She looked up, irked that the dragons had so easily blended in with the darkness above. Her night vision was impressive but even she was no match for a dragon's sight. And they had to have her in their sights, their shadowy forms diving. A blast of fire lit up the wide expanse, heading straight for her. She dodged it, running now, skirting through the shelves, completely disregarding the lingering servants of Mora that churned around her, wondering for but seconds what all the fuss was. The fire crackled behind her, the dragon who'd fired upon her, flying low, his scaled body barely missing grazing her as he crashed into the bookshelves ahead of her. Amarenthine skidded to a halt, changing course, running the opposite direction now as the beast extracted himself from the heavy bookshelves. The dragon's companion landed flawlessly, using his wings to slow his descent, sliding just a bit on the intricate mess that was Mora's pathways. Those draconian eyes shot to her, the dragon lunging her way, its huge body covering more distance than she could. Amarenthine lifted her hand, the shattering sound of glass preceding the order crystals that sprang forth, creating a barrier against the dragon's progress. She didn't know how the dragons were so easily slipping in but they did, her pursuers proof of that. They sought her out and the first few, she'd felled easily, causing enough damage to encourage a retreat. Truthfully, the attacks had once been a welcome change from the writhing darkness that surrounded her. Their roars and the smashing they brought with them had brought sound to an otherwise deathly quiet realm and the thrill of battle had distracted her from the mix of rage and shame that surrounded her memories of her failure. However, as the dragons had persisted, her entertainment had waned. Now, they were tedious. Unexpected and by no means sticking to a schedule, yes, but depressingly routine nonetheless. As she sped through the maze of bookshelves, her mind ran threw what she knew of the realm, of the few hiding places that would allow her a measure of peace and the ones that would allow her the chance to secure the element of surprise. None of which were available to her, the first dragon throwing more fire her way, his flame scorching at her armor, teasing across her skin as well, what of it remained exposed. She felt nothing save annoyance, turning to face her attacker, her hand rising and order crystals springing from her palm. The dragon met them head on, bowing his head just enough to ensure her crystals hit only the scaled armor, falling aside uselessly. She gritted her teeth, her annoyance only rising when the second dragon landed beside his comrade, both staring at her, carrying their hulking bodies closer to her. Their voices rumbled in their language, their words meant only to be between them. The first dragon, the one whose mouth glowed with fire, paused in his approach, allowing his brother to move closer. She could feel the shift in temperature, the sudden drop a second before the second dragon brought forth a blizzard, the cold seizing her. She felt the temperature, knew it was cold, but could not help but wonder what he hoped to accomplish. The annoyance was back and it masked her confusion, her survival. She lashed out, letting annoyance become anger, the dangerously sharp crystals that were hers to command shooting forth, piercing through the air. She did not care what she hit, did not care for the little servants that bowed to Mora that may end up a casualty. Or the tomes and scrolls that would find themselves sporting new holes. No, her rage at these dragons and their impudence would not stand. Her rage was magnified by the rage that coursed in her at Mora for her imprisonment, for Lilith and her manipulations. At every peon that had failed to bring her plan to fruition. And at Darus, the specter of the man he was forever with her, forever reminding her of the catalyst, the reason she was so lost. The crystals whipped around her in a fury, fueled by her emotions. Through the barrage, she could see the dragons retreat, their bodies rising into the air, carried on wings a little more tattered then they'd been before, droplets of blood raining down from their bodies. Proof she'd gotten at least a few good hits in. Amarenthine reigned herself in, her crystals returning to her. She was spent, the effort of simply expressing herself more than she could bear. It would take a good while for her power to refresh itself, the evidence of how far she'd pushed herself revealed as she heard the distinct sound of crystal cracking, feeling the tell tale sign that her skin had fractured. Looking at her hands, she saw first hand the effects, her skin mimicking that of a spider's web. It was a frightening thought indeed, the disregard she had for her existence. There came a crunching sound behind her, a boot crushing her fallen shards alerting her to the fact she was not alone. She turned around, ready for another fight but dreading it at the same time. So when she was greeted by an ethereal form rather than a physical one, well, she smirked, the remnants of her rage tamed by a cloak of indifference.  
“Well well,” she said, lifting her hands, acknowledging the woman before her. “It all makes sense now.”  
She smoothed back tresses of her brown hair, putting herself back together. Putting herself back to right took no effort. She was born from an order crystal after all.  
“I should've known you were the ringleader, being the new Alduin.”  
Amarenthine snorted a bit.  
“I must confess, I really would never have guessed you could even defeat him.”  
“You continue to underestimate me.”  
There was a smile in those words though none appeared on the ethereal halfling face. Syra cracked her knuckles, revealing the outline of a dangerous pair of gauntlets, no doubt an action she'd done on purpose, before she tucked her hands behind her back.  
“Your dragons failed,” Amarenthine gloated. “Perhaps it is time to stop sending them. No mere dragon can kill me.”  
She was not pleased by the appearance of an actual smile on Syra's face, despite its brief stay. It was smug and superior, as if Amarenthine somehow was less than the woman.  
“They did not fail,” Syra declared in response. “For you cannot fail a task you are not assigned.”  
Realization hit her as hard as a battle ax, her mind instantly flashing to the dragons as they...spoke to each other. Comparing notes perhaps? She glared now, death in her eyes, banishing all farce of indifference.  
“You are studying me,” she accused with a growl.  
“Know thy enemy,” Syra confirmed.  
“Bitch,” Amarenthine hissed. “You are a mere bug beneath my shoe.”  
“This bug is the hunter,” Syra declared. “And you are the prey, whether you like it or not.”  
Her tone indicated she knew very well that Amarenthine did not like it.  
“I will hunt you, root you from even the deepest hole you hide in and I will end you,” Syra continued.  
“You will try,” Amarenthine challenged.  
“Oh, I will do more than try,” Syra proclaimed, confident.  
She was beginning to fade, a fact that didn't concern her, her gaze on Amarenthine the entire time.  
“I know you,” she taunted. “I know your strengths. I also know your weaknesses, Thine.”  
She vanished all together then, gone even before the crystals Amarenthine had thrown her way pierced the tatters of the bookshelf behind her. Even in her rage, even falling apart, she knew better than to not heed threats against her. Especially one so boldly delivered. Indeed, she would need help. No doubt, Mora would not be keen to help her, his intent to punish rather than allow her to run loose again. And so, she would have to seek out another ally. A better ally. And she had the perfect one in mind.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Bishop is the ORIGINAL product of Bioware as he is a character in their game NeverWinter Nights. Bishop is also a character in the Skyrim Romance Mod and while he isn't owned by Mara, the mod is. The mod is pretty boss, as its one of the few out there focused solely on us gals, so still check it out but proceed with caution.

Damn he was good. Now, Thaille rarely boasted about himself. He let his hulking muscles praise his physique, like a trophy or medal and his voice could shame some of the less dedicated bards. And that was saying nothing on his ability to command. But he'd really couldn't help the shit eating grin he directed at Falin as she and Zadara returned to the ship, hours after leaving. And yeah, those green eyes fixed him with a look of suspicion, one that came from knowing him for so long.  
“Congratulate me, Captain!” he laughed. “I found your wayward flock homes and jobs!”  
Her eyes went wide, a mix of disbelief and excitement, appropriate for the miracle he was claiming to deliver.  
“Thaille, you beautiful bastard!”  
She ran at him, launching her tiny body at him and he caught her with ease, warmth blossoming in his chest as she hugged him tight. Yes, he would've helped those people even without the incentive of a reward from Falin but to see the unbridled joy on her face, when so often her features had been tainted by a lurking distress, well, he would've stormed the Castle Dour itself to see it.  
“Tell me everything!” Falin ordered, still clinging tight to him.  
“Believe it or not, the blacksmith needed some assistance as well as an apprentice. He took two men, one a former smith. Imagine that. Some of the ladies had rather impressive seamstress skills and Radiant Raiments has need of their skills for last minute alterations and what not.”  
“You never were good at conversations that dissolve into particulars,” Falin remarked.  
“Not about dresses,” Thaille confirmed.  
He set her down, firmly planting the soft shoes she wore in place of her boots on the deck.  
“The rest found employ with a few of the nobles. They'll leave Solitude and Skyrim once the party ends. And we have a new chef.”  
Falin grinned wider, the happiness her eyes held ridding her face of the worry lines that had begun to overtake it.  
“Oh thank the gods,” she laughed. “I was beginning to think we would be stuck with Lucius's cooking for life.”  
“He took it rather well,” Thaille assured her. “Probably because the lad in question is his type.”  
“You're wicked,” she declared and Thaille shrugged.  
“Perhaps.”  
“What about Sissel?”  
Falin was serious now, her features twisted into an inquisitive expression. And one of concern, as if he'd send the kid away. Or gods forbid, back to the scum that had unloaded her onto slavers. It was a telltale reminder that Falin's ghosts were not all gone.  
“She informed me of your arrangement,” Thaille announced.  
“And you don't think it was a good idea?”  
“Its a big responsibility,Falin,” he reminded her.  
“I know,” was Falin's reply. “But I think I'm growing.”  
Thaille chuckled at her response, unable to summon an argument or even a remark to the contrary. Falin rolled her eyes, no doubt taking a measure of offense to his amusement. He waved off her small brood, lumbering off to make sure the ship was still running as it should.  
“What arrangement did you make with Sissel?”  
It was Zadara's first question and not an unexpected one. Falin glanced at the redguard, mildly aware of Thaille looking smugly over his shoulder. Or perhaps she just perceived it that way. Either way, she intended to plant something unpleasant in his bedroll first chance she got. Zadara was waiting for the answer, her furrowed brow evidence she wouldn't be deterred or distracted. Falin sighed, having preferred for the smallest amount of people to know her attentions as was possible.  
“I am adopting Sissel,” she confessed. “We discussed it earlier, when we were on the horse.”  
“She has a family,” Zadara pointed out. “You may not be allowed to.”  
“Her father sold her into slavery because she wanted to learn magic.”  
Falin tilted her head a bit.  
“My parents never understood it but they supported my desire to learn more than just force magic. Its what a parent is suppose to do.”  
“Falin, I don't think you understand what you're undertaking.”  
Zadara's words were gentle, voice soft. But there was an undertone of sadness.  
“Its hard. I think you know what I mean. Being adopted. Walking down the street with someone who doesn't even look like they really could be your parents. It hurts. Even if you don't take Sissel to her family, are you really the best person to adopt her?”  
Falin lifted her chin, her defiance clear.  
“What care do I have for what people will think?”  
“Plenty, if the fact that you dragged us from Falkreath to Solitude in a manner of days is any indication. Oh, and let's not forget that you're still technically recovering from being poisoned,” Zadara retorted flippantly.  
“My absence would've affected my family. Of which Sissel will be,” Falin threw back.  
“In that case, shouldn't you think of her and her well being. How will she feel if her peers ostracize her because of you?”  
“They won't,” Falin declared.  
She turned to go, clearly ready to leave the conversation behind. And Zadara let her, only feeling mildly frustrated.  
“Remember that she can probably throw you off this boat without touching you,” Bishop's voice said from behind her.  
“You heard her, right?” Zadara checked, the two of them watching Falin, her retreat turning into a exploration of the deck, no doubt to check the riggings.  
“I did,” he confirmed. “And its none of my business.”  
“I know what its like to be raced outside my own race,” Zadara said. “I'm a redguard without the culture. I highly doubt that when my father dies, I'll be allowed any claim to his land and holdings simply because of what my heritage is.”  
“I grew up unwanted and unloved,” Bishop said point blank.  
He crossed his arms, giving her half a second to let those words sink it.  
“And I think you of all people should realize that heritage and culture even inheritance is nothing compared to having someone raise you who actually loves you.”  
He nodded Falin's way.  
“The kid is currently sleeping like a queen in her cabin. Falin went so far as to tuck her in. She loves her or at the very least identifies with her. She'll do right by her at least.”  
Zadara studied him for a minute, watching him shift in discomfort. Truly it was one of the few things he'd volunteered about himself. Yes, she still had a few concerns but Bishop had tried to ease the ones she voiced. She grinned at him, the expression just a touch naughty.  
“You're beginning to like me,” she declared. “I can tell.”  
Bishop scoffed, walking away without another word and leaving her alone. But he didn't deny her words and her grin went wicked.

 

She had been hesitant to be separated from Brynjolf. She had a feeling her presence was the only thing keeping the young and possibly hungry vampires at bay and now, that defense was gone. It was a calculated risk, however. She got the feeling that Movarth was not one to take no for an answer and far be it from her to test him. If it was just her, yes, she would stand strong and stubborn as was her nature. She'd survived torture before. But she did not know Brynjolf's pain limits. And so, she had followed the scantily clad Nord woman, ignoring the subtle looks the girl cast her, studying instead her surroundings. They were very obviously in a cave, the likes of which was dry and warm. She'd dare to say cozy, evidence that the vampires inside had made themselves at home all around them in the forms of beds and trunks that were both nearly busting with clothing and coated with a layer of dust from disuse. Hekth kept her expression of distaste to herself. Yes, she was an assassin and vampire, by no means had she been born into affluence. But she'd always had a warm bed and a place to clean herself. She had no time or tastes for caves. Entering a large cavern, she let her gaze sweep the dim setting, the shadows blocking most of the long dining table's contents. She was fine with that, something telling her she didn't want to know. Movarth had seated himself at the table's head, his posture that of a king in his throne like chair. He kept a watchful eye on his feasting charges, a mix of disdain and complete stoicism in his eyes. Hekth understood the feeling to borderline hover over those in her care but could not understand the emotions he broadcasted. Her charges or else her peers, were her family. She saw them as her equals, her comrades. And he very clearly did not see the feeding vampires as that. She stepped to his side and he was immediately aware of her presence, his gaze sliding to her, his emotions turning off in the span of a seconds.  
“An interesting cave,” Hekth remarked, her lips lifting a bit as she feigned ease and amusement. “I never enjoyed them but to each their own.”  
“I am no animal,” Movarth said. “I do not enjoy caves but I will go where needed and I am needed here.”  
“Because Dyre bid you to be,” she guessed.  
“Dyre created these vampires.”  
He swept his hand over the table, indicating his charges, most happily eating obliviously.  
“Your son abandoned them. He chose the Volkihar clan over them.”  
“He chose vampirism over his family,” Hekth retorted. “Dyre only puts only one person first. Himself.”  
It was a harsh truth, one she'd long ago realized and accepted. Why she couldn't kill him continued to escape her but perhaps Brynjolf was right. Movarth, meanwhile, was silent, contemplating her words.  
“You have not told me everything,” he announced finally. “And what you have told me is questionable.”  
“Are you implying I am lying?” she inquired.  
“You said it, not I,” Movarth retorted.  
Hekth smirked.  
“I did not come to this swamp after you,” she explained. “I came here to track my son's steps.”  
“For the Dunmer, Kaya,” Movarth cut her off. “Yes, yes, I heard you.”  
He waved at her, dismissively, only halfway listening to her now. Movarth sat back in his chair, allowing himself a measure of comfort.  
“When I met Dyre, he had a woman in tow,” he announced. “She was indeed a vampire and not all there.”  
He lifted his chin, looking up at Hekth.  
“While he abandoned his children, he made certain that she went with him,” Movarth continued.  
“When he went to Volkihar Castle,” Hekth said, her words coming out low and on an exhale of exasperation.  
If it was Kaya, it made sense that the only place she could be was the Castle still. She hadn't been in Windhelm. Hekth's face shadowed a bit. She needed to get to Lilith. Lifting her head, she met Movarth's eyes, her own narrowing in suspicion at how closely he was watching her.  
“Anything else?” she asked.  
“No,” he replied.  
He looked to the Nord, still hovering just behind Hekth.  
“Release her and her pet,” he ordered.  
He flashed his gaze back to Hekth.  
“I do not want to see you in Morthal again, woman,” he ordered. “You will not find me so merciful a second time.”  
Hekth returned his threat with a smile, a dark one that betrayed how she truly felt about being threatened. His dark eyes got darker but Hekth moved first, urging her guide to move as well, lest Movarth rescind his pardon in the face of her obvious dismissal. She had memorized the way back, applauding her own enhanced memory, one thing she knew was a result of her own capabilities rather than those of her vampirism. Brynjolf had remained sitting in the cage, tucked against the bars, his head lowered into his arms as if he wasn't surrounded by vampires and the only mortal in grabbing distance to their voracious appetites.  
“Brynjolf,” Hekth said, announcing what had been a near silent return.  
He lifted his head as soon as she spoke, surprise in his face.  
“We need to go.”

 

“She did what?”  
She set down the admittedly out of character needle point,a task she only ever undertook when she found the rare moment to take to herself. It was reminiscent of her childhood but now she found no comfort in the activity, addressing Minnya. The agent kept her features perfectly settled into an expression of tranquility. No doubt she found Elenwen's disgruntlement amusing. She was ambitious, vying for the position as diplomat, a job she no doubt intended to be a short stint, utilizing her impressive connections and naturally honeyed tongue to carry her home to the Isles. Elenwen's suspicions regarding the underling before her tore at her as she covered the panic and surprise, pretending and projecting that she was in control. That she had expected her prey to be so close to home. And so able to entangle herself with the nobles. Damn. Damn the cocky little redguard and her cleverness. Elenwen stood now, her mind racing. Truly, she gave no care to the pathetic human nobility. What were they in the face of even one Altmer? If it were up to her, she would eliminate the girl and any who dared ask about her. But should word reach her father, should he hear whispers of her being in Skyrim, he would know. He could destroy Elenwen in one swoop, forcing her so low that even her most steadfast allies would no longer be inclined to spare her a glance. And surely, the girl dying would cause rumors to spread like fire. The little bitch had thrown down a gauntlet of her own, daring Elenwen to come after her, to try, knowing Elenwen's hands were tied. The rage coursing through her was cold. She wanted to destroy something, tear it into pieces and watch them burn. And she couldn't aware Minnya watched her carefully. Instead, Elenwen made her way across her private room, the space decorated in styles reminiscent of her former home in the Isles. Comforts she welcomed now as she tried to pretend her body wasn't containing a raging beast. Seeking distraction, she turned her back on Minnya, exploring her vanity as though everything there was new. There was the new lip paint she'd acquired, picking up the brush and bowl it was stored in,running the brush through the color. It went well with her gold skin, a natural color only a few shades off from her skin color. She ran the brush over her lips, enjoying the task more than she should've. It was a waste of good color, using it in Skyrim and for such a petty task. But it worked. She had calmed enough, her mind working again, deviously.  
“She is playing with fire. She has no true allies here.”  
“Falin is a force to be reckoned with,” Minnya pointed out. “Not to mention who her father is.”  
“Her family is her weakness,” Elenwen declared. “The girl is intolerable to be around but in all that madness, she puts them first.”  
“What would you have me do?” Minnya asked, catching on to the scheme forming in Elenwen's mind.  
“Send word to the Emperor and his guard. Instruct them to allow Falin to see her grandfather. She'll go to him and abandon the little redguard to her own devices. And when she's alone, she will be ours.”

 

She held the dress up to her, ignoring the ugly color. Okay, trying to ignore the ugly color. Sadly, the sickeningly bright yellow just didn't flatter her. She tossed it aside, sitting back on the floor, rifling quietly through her trunk so as not to wake any of the sleeping humans in her cabin. She'd feigned sleep when they came in which was much easier than continuing any conversation that Zadara may try dragging her into. Or listening to Bishop gripe about the time they were wasting. She had to agree, a part of her well aware that Ashanti was in trouble and that part of her could feel nothhng but crushing worry for the feline.All she had to do was get through the party, the wedding and then she never had to grace Vittoria with her presence, free to take off across Skyrim for her faithful companion.  
“The purple one.”  
Bishop's voice was heavy with sleep, buried beneath mock annoyance as he rolled over a bit to glare her way.  
“What?” Falin asked, confused.  
He sat up, his body cracking like fresh bread as he leaned across the wall of nest she'd unintentionally made between them, his calloused fingers pulling from their depths a rich violet swath of fabric that she'd buried without realizing it. He offered it to her with a look she couldn't place, sitting back and waiting. For her, it seemed. She wasn't ready to address anything he would want to talk about, her attention going to the dress that fell like water across her fingers. She smiled a bit, recognizing the dress instantly despite the number of years that had passed since she'd first received it.  
“I was about 15 when I got this,” she informed him, lifting her head a bit. “I was at least a bit disappointed.”  
“Let me guess, birthday present?” Bishop said.  
“Yeah,” Falin confirmed. “My grandfather gave it to me.”  
She ran her hand over the violet fabric.  
“I hated it, really. I was very spoiled-”  
“Was?”  
Bishop raised one eyebrow, his words meant as a tease and Falin smirked.  
“Yes, was. I was still healing from slavery, basking in all these gifts and attention. I didn't appreciate this dress, didn't appreciate what it meant to my grandfather and my father. I didn't like that I couldn't wear it immediately because it was too big.”  
She was lost in the memory, remembering her mother's surprise at her spoiled behavior, her father's shaking his head in amusement and her sister rolling her eyes, having suffered the long months at having to deal with Falin and her rather childish behavior.  
“Grandfather smiled. He patted my head and informed me that a tailor would be sent for. And then he informed me that this dress bore his symbol. It marked me as his family, as nobility. He was done forcing us to remain in the shadows. I never appreciated that.”  
“You did,” Bishop declared. “And your grandfather knows that you did.”  
He smiled a bit.  
“No one pays attention to kids.”  
“They should,” Falin decided. “I was a super smart kid.”  
Bishop snorted and Falin chose not to pursue the matter, instead shaking out the violet gown, admiring it in its entirety.  
“I never wore this,” she said.  
She looked at Bishop.  
“Do you think grandfather will be at the party?”  
“Better safe than sorry,” was all the recluse said with a shrug.  
As unhelpful as his words were, well, he wasn't wrong.

 

She'd cooled off significantly, floating aimlessly now in the water, enjoying the night sky. It was alive with stars, marred not by overcast weather or falling snow. Her mood was much more improved by the fact that she'd gotten to see the sun setting, enjoying very much the swirl of colors that appeared in the sky, eager to swallow up the sun itself. It had been uncomfortable, a result of her vampirism. It was worth it though. She couldn't grasp it, how it was that Harkon could choose the darkness, the savagry, over the sun and warmth. She'd lived a long time, had basked in the presence of mortals for so long. And she always craved more, if only because each new generation was so fascinating. Harkon's vampires had missed out on so much, had closed themselves off to so much. It was heart wrenching. Movement to her left distracted her from her thoughts and she turned in a hurry. There was no precedent for what awaited her, the red hair shorter but just as striking as it had always been. Lilith flailed to shore, stumbling away from the water's pull and coming to a stop.  
“As I live and breathe,” she whispered.  
“Except you don't.”  
Aela's smile was wide, amused. She cared little for the obvious vampirism that tainted Lilith, choosing to wrap one arm around Lilith in a hug, careful of the child she balanced on her hip. As Lilith wrapped her own arms around the Nord, she realized how much she ahd missed the simplicity of the Companions, how much she had missed Kodlak and his lot. How much she missed Farkas. She held on too long, the child fussing at being smushed and only then did Lilith back off.  
“Who is this?” she asked, admiring the babe.  
Her eyes were bright and brown, her face serious as Skjor's had been in life. There were hints of hair that were still too light to reveal what color they'd be permanently. And a feeling of wildness to her that worried Lilith just a bit. Even still, she found the child enchanting, smiling warmly as she offered a finger which the child accepted, wrapping her fingers around it into a tight little fist.  
“She is fierce, isn't she?”  
Aela's face was alight with pride and love, excitement at the future her child inspired her to think of.  
A“I named her Hrotti,” Aela declared.  
“A heavy name,” Lilith remarked.  
“And one she will live up to.”  
Her gaze softened, her hand brushing Hrotti's cheek.  
“She is the best of me. The best of her father.”  
Skjor. Lilith had never been close to him, had never found much need to interact with him. It did not mean his lose had gone unnoticed. She curcled her hand around Hrotti's, marveling at the strength there.  
“He would have loved her,” Lilith declared.  
Apparently, Aela had had enough reminicing, shaking away the dark cloud that had tried to settle over her.  
“I am very glad that I managed to find you,” she said, the transition not as smooth as she'd probably intended.  
She seemed unbothered and Lilith smiled at that.  
“You always did have the best nose of the Circle.”  
Her compliment went ignored. Aela had always had a bit of a one track mind, one rarely tempered by social customs.  
“Vilkas wrote me,” she continued. “He told me about Farkas.And about the Companions.”  
A faction Lilith had sadly neglected, throwing herself into Harkon's court.  
“There's no Harbinger,” Aela announced.  
“I thought Vilkas would take over,” Lilith admitted, surprised he hadn't.  
Aela looked at her like she was stupid.  
“You were the last Harbinger before Farkas. You turned the position over to him so you could focus on the mages. It makes sense the position would default back to you.”  
It actually made no sense at all but she wasn't going to argue that point when so many better ones arose.  
“Aela I can't be Harbinger,” Lilith declared.  
She never could've been, the position only given to her because Kodlak had lost his intended successor and he hadn't believed any one else had been ready for the role. She'd been his place holder.  
“We know,” Aela said.  
She shook her head a bit, adjusting her stance. Her eyes drifted upwards, to Solitude above them, the path that led to the blue palace.  
“I came to Solitude to ensure Hrotti a good life. I ran because of fear. I feared the Silver Hand taking her from me too. And then I realized I am no coward,” she said.  
Her gaze went back to Lilith, ferocity in their depths.  
“I want to return to Jorrvaskr as Harbinger.”  
“Then do so.”  
Lilith's response was automatic, her relief tenfold. She had no place amongst warriors that turned their nose up at magic. She was magic embodied. But Aela? She was forged of the same metal she swung around in a fight. She was a warrior to her core. And while she hadn't been ready when Kodlak had passed, she was ready now. It was a scary thought, that time kept passing even when she was removed so thoroughly from it, trapped within the dark confines of Harkon's court. She needed to find something and fast. But that was not the current matter at hand. She smiled at Aela, hiding all her doubts and fears and concerns.  
“Well met, Harbinger,” she said.  
And she wouldn't trade the wide grin Aela gave her for anything in the world.


	17. Chapter 17

He slept rarely. Nightmares plagued him, a trap of his own making really. He would never escape Apocrypha, not truly. It lurked within him, a part of him, a diseased part. One didn't spend so long within the clutches of a Daedric Prince and not come back unchanged. He stared at the ceiling, aware of both Lilith and Serana breathing together in sync, safe from the faint hint of early dawn light he'd spotted when he'd peeked outside. They kept later hours than he since their excursion to Solitude. Last he'd remembered, Lilith had returned, her wet hair drying into waves, and had changed quickly into a simple night gown, curling up against her headboard and reading through Amarenthine's journal. She squinted a bit, clearly struggling but made no move for the dressing mirror. Probably because Miraak was sitting next to it. Had fallen asleep next to it as well, the chair not ideal for his body or his neck. He cracked it again, unsure of what to do. He let his gaze go to Lilith again. His words the day prior had been harsh. His words had been uncalled for, his reaction to the challenge she presented unnecessary. Much of his past needed to be made up for, his actions then regrettable. His actions at Windhelm, when given the chance to right those wrongs, step through a mere portal to face his destiny, well, those were even worse. He really needed to take his failures better. And he owed Lilith an apology. Ah, yes, combating his pride. Not what he enjoyed. His gaze traveled to the book, the mysterious journal that held Amarenthine's secrets that was slumped on the floor having slid from Lilith's grip some time in the night. Miraak scooped it up, silent in the room to be certain he had as much time as was possible to himself. He needn't have been too concerned, knowing that the two women were heavy sleepers. Settling back into his chair, he cracked the book, marveling at the age really. The script was different and not because of the unique way it was written. No, the letters started out neat, recordings of a girl merely going about her day, keeping to herself, if Amarenthine could be called something so base. He read the dreams of others, fates she guided towards completion, more in depth than the second hand accounts historians pieced together from secondary information. It perhaps helped that Amarenthine crafted those fates. Of course she would know their course. She looked upon these heroes and villains, as some were, recording their progress and marking her interventions, all in an uninspired hand, leaving the margins for scrawled notes. It was in those notes that he saw a different Amarenthine, perhaps a less corrupt version of her priestess persona, her script revealing an excitement. While she may have known their fate and kept it in order, she was the biggest fan of those she influenced. It didn't sit well with him really, to see lives so easily reduced to words and notes. He moved on, choosing only to skim, his mismatched eyes halting when they came across a significant change in her handwriting. And for the next few pages, the journal became just that,the occasional report of an altered fate making an appearance but well eclipsed by bubbling recounts of time spent with Darus. The name seemed synonymous with happiness for Amarenthine. The change was....welcome. He recalled the Priestess, remembering well the haunting laugh she left behind when she visited him to torment and taunt him. There was a madness there, a desperation he knew and so many other emotions. The sound always annoyed him. Perhaps because it struck too close to his own feelings? Either way, he welcomed Amarenthine's happiness, scrutinizing the nonsense handwriting, smiling just a bit to read words he'd never thought he'd associate with a being known as Jyggalag's daughter. Once upon a time, she had been young and innocent and in love. Then again, so had he. The difference between them was his acknowledgment that attempting revenge was futile when in truth, his actions were his own. No one had made him do as no one had forced Amarenthine into her role. But it was such a minor difference. And the longer he sat ruminating their similarities, the more an idea formed. He shot to his feet then, tossing Amarenthine's journal on the table, crossing the room rather quick despite the size.  
“Lilith!”  
He shook her, careful not to be too rough or jarring. His efforts were wasted, throwing himself back to avoid Lilith's flailing hands. She glared at him, evidence of being awoken too soon manifesting in bags under her eyes and a tired glare.  
“What?” she yawned.  
Miraak chose to ignore her mood, perhaps gloss over their less than friendly words earlier as well.  
“I think I know where Amarenthine hid the Elder Scroll.”

 

“Suck it in.”  
The command, masquerading as advice, was issued via a grunt as the halfling behind her tugged a bit harder on the corset strings.  
“I can't suck it in anymore,” Zadara responded, her answer a grunt as well.  
She was careful when speaking, well aware that Falin was petty. The halfling grunted again, frustration evident.  
“Your boobs are in the way,” she griped.  
“I've never had any complaints before,” was Zadara's dry retort.  
Admittedly, Falin bit back a smile. Yes, she woken in a mood, probably because she had to go through the steps of being presentable for a party and then a wedding that she wanted no part of. All on the slim chance her grandfather would be there. She was caught between a rock and a hard place. If she warned him, waited for him, Ashanti would suffer at her captor's hands. And if she went after Ashanti, her grandfather's life may very well be forfeit. There wasn't enough of her to go around. Her thoughts were getting too dire and so she put more focus into Zadara's corset strings.  
“Your breasts are just too small,” Bishop announced.  
Whether a dig at Falin or a compliment to Zadara, it didn't stop both of them from casting him useless glares, no doubt doing nothing to scold him as his back was to them, reading some book he'd scrounged out from the depths of the boat.  
“You're glaring at me, aren't you?' Bishop asked, probably clued in by the silence as he very studiously avoided looking at them.  
“We are,” Zadara confirmed. “You just insinuated you've been observing our breasts.”  
“I've been observing you,” he corrected. “Your finer features are a bonus.”  
His words were met by a stray boot, his outburst as it hit drowned out by the ruffling of fabric as Zadara extracted herself from the dress Falin had been attempting to lace closed.  
“It doesn't fit,” she declared, stopping any objections Falin voiced, aware of the little pervert's eyes drifting to her cleavage.  
She rolled her eyes, hands on her hips, turning to face the long mirror of Falin's in nothing but the corseted underwear Falin had scrounged up for her. Very rarely had she worn elven gowns. Elven women were simply built differently, bodies slimmer in a natural way and often there was less chance to find an elf maid with any bulk, lest one seek out an orc. Falin was no different than the half of her that made up most of her body and Zadara, well, she was more solid, trained in such a way that she could be an unmovable wall if needed. By some miracle of the gods, she managed to fit the dress from the day prior probably due mostly to the dress's open shoulders and already loose fit. Now, however, she needed something that would last the night. Now that the initial encounter was over, she was energized, her energy both nervous and of the bold variety. She wanted the Thalmor to see her, to know they weren't winning. That she was alive, well and rubbing elbows with nobles they saw beneath them. By now, they'd flock to Elenwen, each eager to be the first to inform their glorious leader that they'd seen her. She'd fly into action, calling back as many of her snake tongued advisers as she could who knew what she was cooking up. That was what had Zadara nervous, her fears that this would mean an end to her life despite her political stunts.  
“... I suppose you could just go naked.”  
Zadara zoned back in, catching the tail end of Falin's sentence. The halfling wasn't addressing her, those taunting words thrown Bishop's way. The tension in his shoulders betrayed the scowl sitting on his face, either at the idea of the ball itself or going naked. Zadara smiled, lifting the lounging robe she'd been wearing since Falin had roused her from bed with a very unfriendly push and pulling it on. Falin was running around in one exactly like it but much bigger. If she was to be believed, it was Thaille's and included a story about a spa trip that ended in Falin force magicking a large amount of mud around a room. Simply to see if she could. Zadara hadn't been listening but settled comfortably in the confines of Falin's robe, glad that it was something she could at least wear while her own acquired armor was being washed.  
“I'm decent,” she announced, settling comfortably on a plush lounger that seemed to serve as Falin's bed more than the actual bed.  
She could see why, it was incredibly comfortable and so she tucked her legs under herself as Bishop finally turned around, tossing the offending shoe at Falin who caught it easily, her grin a dead giveaway that he'd selected the correct target. She seemed done teasing him for the moment, instead turning to Zadara.  
“You don't have to come,” she assured her. “I am perfectly capable of scandalizing the whole of Vittoria's crop on my own.”  
“I intended to come for the free food actually,” Zadara retorted. “I have no intentions of ruining my court reputation. At least not the first time out of the gate.”  
Bishop made a face at her, his disapproval clear.  
“See,” Falin said, turning to him. “She won't be engaged with my antics. At some point, we may become separated. Then how can I ensure Zadara won't be swept away by some dashing gentleman?”  
“Who is to say my presence will deter said gentleman?” Bishop demanded.  
“You're the very opposite of charming and approachable,” Falin replied point blank. “You could deter suitors for me as well.”  
The thought seemed to have just occurred to her and she sat back, clearly contemplating it.  
“Or he can stay here as my attendance sadly hangs on acquiring a dress to fit,” Zadara cut in, pulling Falin's attention away from whatever dastardly plans were twisting into existence in her mind.  
Falin groaned, covering her face, as if she no longer wanted to think about it. Meanwhile, Zadara turned to Bishop.  
“You don't have to go but it certainly would be nice to have someone to scoff at everything with if Falin decides that flirting is more fun than entertaining me.”  
“I'll think about it,” Bishop mumbled, his words not inspiring confidence.  
Ah well, it was his choice. Falin, meanwhile, had moved back to her trunk of dresses, shifting a few more of what appeared to be a near endless variety. Yes, most of the colors were unflattering, even for Falin who they'd been made for but she'd kept them, suffering the task of nearly drowning in horrendous fabric as she did. Zadara almost had to admire the dedication. There came a knock at the cabin door, an interruption they hadn't been expecting since most of the crew who'd devised reasons to come in had just walked in, probably hoping to catch them doing something. It was rather cute, their dedication and protectiveness of their captain. This time it was Thaille, his form filling the door's frame, leaving little room.  
“Captain,” he greeted, his gaze on Bishop though.  
Falin didn't notice, still half in the chest.  
“What do you want?” she demanded.  
“I'd like to borrow your guest,” he replied, the nod he sent Zadara's way more for her than Falin who couldn't see him.  
Falin finally emerged from the depths, confused by his request.  
“Why?” she asked.  
Thaille crossed his arms, smirking her way.  
“I'm not going to tell you,” he admitted.  
“Thaille,” Falin warned.  
“Its going to drive you crazy,” he gloated.  
On that merit alone, Falin clearly wanted to dismiss him, perhaps throw her shoe his way as she'd done to Bishop. But she didn't, glancing Zadara's way.  
“Your choice,” she said before returning to her chest.  
Zadara shrugged and rose, having nothing better to do but sit and wait. Thaille nodded as if he approved her choice, heading out wordlessly, Zadara following in his wake.  
“Where is Sissel on this fine morning?” she asked, hurrying along behind him.  
She'd seen the girl in passing, both times that she could count the girl had scurried away, as if she took Zadara's concern over Falin adopting her as disapproval. An issue to set right but later.  
“There's a school marm set up in Solitude. Sent her off to get a grasp of her letters,” Thaille explained.  
He smirked, producing a letter. Where he'd gotten it, well, Zadara didn't want to know.  
“I knew a wizard in my day who was a college attendee. He claims there's a lot of reading involved.”  
It made little sense to Zadara but she smiled anyway, not wanting to offset Thaille's good mood. He tucked the letter away again, his motions far too slow to not be a distraction from whatever thoughts he had. It was that rather subtle lag that set Zadara on edge. However, she didn't react, didn't tense. Lest he figure out she knew something was off.  
“Through here,” he said, opening the door to a cabin much like Falin's except smaller.  
The walls were covered in maps and handwritten notes, the script neat. Zadara moved closer, fully stepping inside, to observe them, realizing the words made no sense. The one that did? Her name, scrawled in the same neat handwriting as the rest of the notes. She hurriedly turned around,facing Thaille. He was leaning against the wall, the door closed. But he was merely observing her, waiting for her to get her fill. Zadara looked back at the writing, lifted the paper and saw there was another paper beneath it, a letter. This handwriting, it made sense. She recognized it in a heartbeat. Her father had written this letter. Once more she looked back at Thaille and let every question write itself onto her face.  
“What I tell you, doesn't leave this room,” Thaille declared and she nodded eagerly.  
She couldn't speak, a sense of homesickness seizing her.  
“Anywhere else on this ship, I'm the First Mate. In here, I'm not. I'm the Spymaster.”  
His words were heavy and Zadara felt cold. What seized her wasn't quite fear but certainly its equivalent, whatever that was.  
“Few days ago, I got that letter.”  
Her father's letter.  
“I recognized your name when Falin introduced you,” he admitted.  
“You didn't even react,” Zadara observed.  
“I've been doing this a long time,” Thaille replied easily. “Masking my surprise comes with the job.”  
“If you have this letter, that means you know my father,” Zadara realized, really studying Thaille closely.  
She could honestly say she'd never have forgotten him. He was larger than life, even now, and she was rather tall for a woman. She couldn't imagine looking at him as a child and not seeing a giant.  
“My wife worked for your father,” Thaille replied.  
He smirked.  
“But I didn't bring you down here to talk about my wife,” he admitted. “Not entirely because I simply must brag. She fairly tamed a savage like me, taught me to appreciate the finer things in life. Even with all their rules.”  
He rolled his eyes, exasperated clearly with these yet to be defined rules.  
“Rule number one, keep the nobles happy. If you're the new toy of the moment, play your role well. The benefits outweigh the indignity,” he wisely recited.  
“So, go to the party tonight basically?” Zadara summed up, not bothering to mention what was actually a slew of reasons to do the exact opposite.  
She crossed her arms.  
“I don't have a dress,” she said, challenging him to summon up a rule to deal with that.  
Thaille's responding grin was slow and mischievous.  
“Rule number two, always be prepared.”

 

She was alone, left with only the slow crunch of her boots against grass. There was a breeze carried from the north, the pleasant air a tell tale sign that she'd have to deal with snow soon. A bleak wintery landscape would match her mood very much. Her clothes were still damp, her boots water logged as well, from the fight for her life she'd waged against Movarth. He was a man fallen from the grace he'd once held himself to. She'd read his story once before, before she'd been transformed. It had meant nothing, held no significance. It was merely a tall tale for her to curl in bed with, reading by candle light as Syra had kicked her late into the night, Arnan's arms hugging her and her baby bump even as he slept. She'd been drawn back to it after she'd been freed from her imprisonment amongst the false Tong assassins, his story forever repeating in her head. What, she wondered, had possessed the vampire to turn Movarth? And what had compelled Movarth to become what he was now, a monster no doubt building his own coven. She did not like the proximity to Morthal as well. Of course, wasn't that why'd she'd sent Brynjolf off, back to Riften atop the fastest horse she knew, to see if the rumors Babette had sent her way had been true. Was the Dawnguard reforming? And if they were true, could they save Morthal from its fate. She could not, her own task important, her need for Lilith and for Harkon's castle driving her to where she was now, skirting Solitude's borders for a lone dock, pushing further northward as the courier who delivered her letters and brought responses from Lilith had described. Never mind that the Dawnguard would kill her on sight if she so much as breathed in their direction, regardless that her intentions would mean innocent children would never worry that their throats would be torn out by starving vampires. This humanity, this need to preserve life, it was most definitely her. But how many vampires had she seen become monsters, snuffing out innocent lives with little care. Her own thoughts betrayed her, betrayed her role as the Listener. That she believed in innocence anymore showed that she too had fallen victim to doubt. For had the Night Mother not killed her own children, proving her loyalty to the Dread Father? She trudged on, her boots slipping a bit, still wet enough to turn the loose dirt beneath her feet into mud. She gave it no mind, for once letting her thoughts consume her. She should follow the Dark Matron's example, end Dyre's life, ignore the eyes he turned to her, their red a product of her. Block the memories they stirred as she recalled his innocence, remembering his delight at being told he was to be a brother, his mouth agape revealing the gap between his teeth that was so darlingly ridiculous that she'd never wanted it gone. Perhaps remembering his tiny hand on her stomach, whispering promises to his little sister, ranging from protecting them, be she boy or girl, to gushing about all the things he would teach them. Knowing what she did now, knowing the terror he would reign down upon their lives, could she have killed him then, protected Syra? Saved Arnan? That had always been her role, protecting the two of them, preventing the world from touching them when she could. She'd failed Dyre in that regard, pushing him into the world of assassins and their real work far too early. Perhaps it was her own failure rather than her love for him that stayed her hand. Ugh, she didn't want to think on that anymore. Nor did she relish returning her thoughts to Movarth and his intentions. She wished perhaps that she hadn't sent Brynjolf away just a bit, never mind that her success would mean a court full of vampires that thought as Dyre did, that relished blood and death and pain. Above all else, she knew that if anything were to happen to Brynjolf, whenever Syra returned, she would feel nothing but devastation. Her life, yes, she would gamble with. His, she would not.

 

The Shivering Isles. It seized her thoughts, her gambled hand at court intrigue really getting a work out. She hadn't understood madness, not truly. She'd almost revealed her hand many times, never quite knowing how to navigate paranoia. Amarenthine had known her, probably better than Lilith knew her older sister. Lilith had been selfish for a long time, spoiled by Dibella's attention and the praise of many peers and teachers. Back then, it had never occurred to her to think that others could feel pain or happiness. All she knew was her own. For so long, she'd proclaimed herself a victim, citing her treatment at the hands of the Divine and Daedric, ignoring allies in favor of not fixing her situation, fearing leadership and responsibility. Now, she stepped into the Temple of the Divines, half certain Miraak was insane in his theories. Perhaps sleep deprivation was to blame? Or the stress of what they hoped to accomplish? The priestesses congregated in the small alcove looked towards her as one, no doubt recognizing the Arch Mage. She'd made certain to visit the various Holds to introduce herself when she'd been assigned it. They moved together to approach her, their progress stopped when she bid them pause so as not to hinder her own. It had been a long time since she'd seen a shrine to Akatosh, purposely avoiding them and for good reason. She did her best to keep her fear off her face as she came to a stop before the eight shrines, the empty ninth a gaping reminder of Skyrim's state. Kneeling before Akatosh's shrine, she bowed her head, hoping that if Akatosh counted himself amongst the gods who found disgust with vampires, he would put it aside simply to hear her prayer.  
“Akatosh.”  
She closed her eyes, aware of the heartbeats all around her.  
“A sign please.”  
Her words were barely above a whisper. Not for the first time, she resented both Serana and Miraak for waving off her suggestion that one of them grovel to the gods for help. Realizing her pride was at risk of overriding her sense, she banished it and bowed her head just a bit lower.  
“I must speak with Sheogorath. I must find him and I must go to the Shivering Isles if I am to stop Amarenthine's plotting,” she hurriedly said. “Please, please, give me a sign that you approve.”  
Silence was her answer, silence she'd expected. Rarely were responses timely. She opened her eyes, bowed, staring at the floor, committing every crack in the stone, intentional or not, to memory, trying not to feel as though the god was enjoying her begging.  
“Cheese for everyone!”  
The voice was especially jarring, the familiar gravel tone causing her head to fly up, her eyes seeking out the owner,only to behold nothing but the nearly empty temple. There was the faintest hint of laughter as it grew farther away from her, as if this was some game of tag to be played. Or the only hint Akatosh could extend to her. She chose the latter, rising, glancing back at the shrine. She wanted to believe he'd heard her and granted her the battering ram equivalent of a hint. She gave a nod at the shrine, a silent thanks, turning and hurrying out to Miraak and Serana, the two loitering outside. They snapped to attention as one as she emerged.  
“Well?' Serana demanded as soon as Lilith was close enough.  
“I think Sheogorath is in Skyrim, perhaps even in Solitude,” she admitted.  
“Does this mean you have a plan to get his attention?” Miraak asked.  
“I do!” Lilith confessed. “But you're not going to like it.”


	18. Chapter 18

How they'd managed to talk him into attending a party, especially one crammed full of nobles, he'd never understand. But here he was, on display, the only thing anchoring him to the gleaming floor Zadara's arm looped through his. She needed him as much as he needed her it seemed, her grip on him tight, rejecting dances left and right. Not that there had been many. He was sad to say that Falin had been right. His usual scowl had sufficiently scared off most of the men who'd tried approaching Zadara. She didn't seem to mind though, content to be on display, to drag him to mingle rather than to the dance floor. Whatever. Bishop was just enjoying the food, the food passing him by on silver trays. All of it bite size though Falin had assured him there would be dinner.  
“Can you even eat in that dress?” he asked, leaning over so his words would reach her ears and no one else's.  
Zadara fixed him with a look, her hair loose and cascading down her shoulders in waves created by her usual braided up do. When she'd returned from her trip with Thaille, she hadn't come empty handed, carrying a long pale yellow dress, its one sleeve designed in a draping fashion and the belt braided and a deep gold, a stark contrast from the rest of the gown. Looking at her now, she looked as though she'd been poured into it. It brushed the floor, hiding the sandals Falin had bought her last second.  
“I'll be fine,” Zadara assured him. “Worst case scenario, the dress rips, I fake a swoon and you carry me out of here like the place is on fire.”  
“I like this plan,” Bishop declared.   
“You're becoming predictable,” Zadara playfully scolded, waving off another dance.  
She was smiling too wide, each one looking as though she was trying to shatter her face. It was rather eerie how well he realized he knew her mannerisms, for having been acquainted for such a short time.  
“I think I spotted Falin,” he reported, changing the subject, not even wanting to address whatever issue Zadara was having.  
Falin was a different story. Complicated as she was, she was simple as well. Describing her with words was odd, a hard task indeed. But ultimately, she was easy to deal with. Though she had ditched them upon entering, zipping into the crowd so fast he'd marveled she could do that in such a full skirt as the one her deep violet dress boasted of. She was currently surrounded by a mix of middle aged women and young men more Falin's age and she looked miserable.  
“Oh dear. Those must be suitors,” Zadara laughed, hiding her amusement behind her hand.  
Falin's suitors were clearly eyeing her, attention raking over her in such a way that it was beyond obvious they were studying her, assigning value where they saw fit. Her dress was sleeveless, the collar of which hugged her shoulders but left them bare, plunging slightly to give the illusion she had an at least moderate bust rather than the modest one her usual loose shirts implied. Compared to what Bishop was use to seeing her in, Falin's dress was tame and suited her.  
“We should save her,” Zadara sighed.  
“Or,” Bishop proposed. “We allow her to fully experience all this world has to offer and run down one of these servants with the mud crab legs.”  
“Its hard to argue with the suggestion,” Zadara conceded, allow Bishop to change their course, skillfully before Falin laid eyes on them.  
It did not escape her notice, however, that every Thalmor in the room watched her. A mere trio, thankfully, rather than an overwhelming force, they stood off to the side, keeping to themselves at a raised table, three bottles of spiced wine between them. Only one had been open, the other two clearly just in case they ran out and didn't want to interact with their lessers mingling around them. She would put on a show, make herself the new shiny toy for the nobles as Thaille had suggested. But she would rub the Thalmors' noses in it as a whole to do so. Her feelings were mixed on whether or not she would relish or dread a meeting with Elenwen, the wretch that had put this game into action. It was eerie, thinking of it as a game when the consequence of losing was her life.

 

Assassin he may be but he relished the expensive gloves he wore, the product of a splurge to celebrate his leave of Cyrodil. Why he'd kept them, well, even assassins could like nice things. Babette's hand felt warm in his as they entered the richly decorated as opposed to the usual corpse cold that it was.  
“I'll go find the blushing bride,” Babette whispered, her smile menacing and violent.  
She slipped away, her hand leaving his and suddenly he was alone. Alone. He'd never get use to it, never enjoy it truly. That was the thing about solitude. It was very often lonely. He stepped further, wading into a crowd that was not his own, letting his usual jovial nature out in full force. His madness felt forced as the days went by. But only he noticed, few bothering to scratch past the surface. Someone handed him a drink, the wine tempting. It had been a good while since he'd had anything stronger than water or milk. Stealthfully, he lowered the chalice away, leaving the wine on a stray table. Vittoria was his intention. He should've gone with Babette.  
“Cicero?”  
He turned his head slowly, surprised to find Lilith at his side. He should've expected the Arch Mage would be at the party. Social events seemed her forte, if his fellow assassins were to be believed.  
“Arch Mage,” he greeted.  
He tried. Tried so hard to extend even the faintest hint of madness. What came forth instead was malice, the surprise appearing in her eyes instantly. He dropped his gaze, admiring the deep green fabric of her dress. The long dress flowed into a train, fanning behind her and the straps were braided with darker green fabric, secured by golden rings. It was overall a simple dress, a fact Lilith seemed to know if the golden circlet pressed with emeralds was anything to go by.  
“Why are you here?” she demanded, eyes flashing.  
It was a dumb question. An assassin in a room full of nobles? The chances that blood wouldn't spill tonight was slim. He didn't bother to answer, allow her to mull it over in her head if she so chose.  
“Who are you here for?” she finally asked, her tone cautious.  
In response, Cicero pressed a finger to his lips, a playful smile all he could give her. It clearly frustrated her but she couldn't give voice to her objections, one of the many nobles appearing at her side, launching into conversation almost instantly. Cicero slipped away then, searching for Babette, intent on warning her of Lilith's presence lest the mage prove to be an obstacle. Best they not tip their hand.  
The room and its occupants held little interest for him, his eyes scanning for his fellow assassin. Only they did not fall on Babette. The red hair was his first hint, the color a dead ringer for blood. It drew the eye instantly and with prior experience with the owner, well, he couldn't help himself. His body moved forward automatically, moving through the crowd with ease. She was flocked by men, her expression bored. He slid into their midst, ignoring the slide glances he was getting as he planted himself in front of the woman. Studying her up class as he did, seeing her in a different light than that of a slave pit. Her green eyes were quizzical, looking up at him, their height difference minimal. A nice change of pace as Cicero had noticed a pattern beginning in most of the women he interacted with. To name it, he was somewhat shorter.  
“A dance then?” he asked, face breaking into a wide grin.  
“Oh of course!” she chirped happily, sliding her finely tanned hand into his. He was aware of the dark band that decorated her wrists, like slave cuffs. There was a story there and somehow, it made her that much more fascinating to him. Ignoring the resentful glares that the other men threw him, he led her away from their midst, enjoying the feel of her hand in his. And then the feel of her body against his as he pulled her closer.  
“I appreciate the rescue,” she said, turning a smile on him to match his own.  
Cicero chuckled.  
“I'm no hero,” he admitted. “My involvement was rather selfish.”  
She laughed.  
“Ah, an honest man. I enjoy that.”  
There was mischief in her grin, her eyes just shifty enough that he knew she was feeling playful. Cicero matched that grin, enjoying the madness within that he saw as well.  
“I am no honest man.”  
“Then what kind of man are you?” she asked, her eyelashes tossing shadows on her cheeks that added a hint of sultriness to her question.  
“I am a mad man,” Cicero declared with certainty, though as each day passed, he felt that held less and less true.  
Any woman would have fled from him then, if only to protect her image. The mad, the crazy, they were wretched, something to be hidden away, She did not, her face falling into a thoughtful expression.  
“Madness isn't scary,” she declared. “Sanity is.”

 

She was successful so far, avoiding notice. Her dress didn't raw the eye and she didn't play as many women did, their breasts, thighs or even legs drawing the eye to them. Her dress was modest, the collar high and shielding her cleavage. Her shoulders were cut out but the sleeves covered her arms. Otherwise the dress was very plain, hanging straight to the floor, the seamstress sniffing when she'd posed the question of hemming it a bit shorter. This was a mass of eligible nobles, each seeking that mate that would elevate them to a higher station in life. If Harkon had remained human, would this have been her life? Would she have been married by now, chasing a hoard of her own children? Did she want that? Some days she didn't know. A home would be nice, a warm one not stifled by enraged silence. Soft music, she decided. Maybe a crackling fire. She was lost in her thoughts, only aware she was no longer alone when Miraak took a place at her side. She fought the urge to look his way, pretending as if she wasn't even aware of his presence. Her anger had evaporated but she wasn't fully ready to forgive his insensitivity. He owed Lilith an apology, even if he didn't want to admit it.  
“You look nice,” he said, he said rather awkwardly.  
Serana merely crossed her arms.  
“I have every intention to apologize to Lilith,” Miraak declared. “I am aware, upon reflection, that I was in the wrong. I allowed my temper and pride to get ahead of me.”  
“I'm sure Lilith would love to hear that.”  
“She is avoiding me,” Miraak replied. “Using you as a buffer.”  
“Are you implying your pride is so great you cannot apologize to someone you have wronged in front of the witness to that incident?”  
She looked at him now.  
“Face your mistake,” she ordered.  
“I do not have practice,” Miraak sighed.  
He ran a hand through his rich brown hair, a sign of nervousness?  
“I have always been a man above my station. I am not use to following orders, merely issuing them. So forgive me if I have much to learn.”  
“You're apologizing to me pretty well here,” Serana remarked.  
“I actually care about you,” he responded.  
She was surprised into silence, looking at him in surprise. He remained rather passive in expression however, his eyes falling on the dance floor.  
“As I have already effectively embarrassed myself here,” he said, offering her his hand. “Would you care to dance?”  
Serana eyed his hand, weighing her options. She had been waiting for a chance to slip away but people still congregated by the doors, eager to peek around and see when the blushing bride to be would enter their midst. And suppose Serana exit at the same time she was arriving. Plenty of people had seen her at Lilith's side and she wasn't keen on being the weak link in Lilith's chain. However, she wasn't one to dance much.  
“I'm not much of a dancer,” she informed him.  
“Nor am I,” Miraak assured her. “We did little dancing in my day.”  
“I'm worried also that you may break a hip,” Serana added, biting back her grin.  
Her words got their desired effect, his lips parting in a grin.  
“I know how strong you are. Be sure to hold me up should such a thing happen.”  
Beaten in there game of snark, she snorted but took his hand, relishing the feel of his skin, allowing him to pull her into his arms. She didn't want to be on bad terms with him. Everything seemed so small at Harkon's court compared to Solitude. Here and now, there were hundred in the room to talk to, to interact. It was overwhelming and something she sometimes craved for all her introvert tendencies. But back in the garden, surrounded by hints of her mother's presence and knowing all to well her father lurked near by, her world felt smaller, her only real solace the man holding her, leading her surprisingly well for a man who claimed he wasn't much of a dancer. She wanted to enjoy it, knowing full well that even if Harkon suddenly had a change of heart, suddenly decided to throw some extravagant party, the chance of Miraak attending were slim to none. And she so did enjoy dancing with him.

 

Lilith had bided her time, slipping from the party as quietly as she could . It seemed rumors of her spread a lot farther than she'd wanted and so came the task of assuring more nobles than she cared to that, no, she hadn't died. Hadn't left only to return. She was performing her duties as Arch Mage as best she could. And of course came the condolences, some sincere and some nobles scorned hoping to poke and prod at her pain. Finally, though, she'd slipped away, dodging the guard and any attending Thalmor as she headed through the Blue Palace. Part of her wondered how it was Vittoria had convinced Elisif to throw the party here rather than the drearier Castle Dour but she was glad for it. The guard had been moved upstairs, to better secure the High Queen's rooms, leaving the abandoned wing she needed unguarded. With little time to think, she pushed her way in, cringing at the loud creak the door made as she did. But after a few minutes, tensed, ignoring the spider webs falling through the air to land on her shoulders or the dust tickling her nose, the door didn't reopen, leaving her free to venture further in. She lifted the train of her dress, tucking it over her arm. She'd never thought about Sheogorath anymore which was odd given how big a part he'd played in the horror show that was her birth. Her father was free now and the Greymarch had ended. In truth, she'd seen such little change in Darus She'd honestly believed he and Amarenthine would live a happily ever after tale, ruling over New Sheoth and the Isles together. Foolish perhaps, deluding herself into thinking madness wouldn't change Darus He was mortal, taking up the mantle of a god. And Haskill had no doubt steered him into the deepest parts of his mind, the insanity that defined the Mad God. There wouldn't be enough Darus to persuade Amarenthine to stay. A result of Lilith and Dibella not counting on one factor, that Amarenthine could even love. They'd been selfish and blind accordingly. Something Lilith would not let happen again. The air around her changed on that note, crackling with magic and daedric energy. From that same air, where the daedric energy was strongest came an attacking blast of magic. Lilith threw up a ward, surprised at the force the magic hit it with, nearly knocking her off her feet. Her ward shredded out of existence. She wasn't dealing with any ordinary magic, that was for sure. No follow up attack came, instead the air wavered from the attack point, the air alight with the violet light of a summoning portal appearing. And out stepped Sheogorath. Gone was the copper locks that he'd use to brush from his eyes, a habit he didn't seem to get had drawn many eyes to his own chocolate orbs. Lilith had to admit, he was attractive. She could see how Amarenthine had been so drawn in, casting the memory of Darus onto Sheogorath. All that was left of Darus was his impressive height and physique, his body having not changed a day.  
“Darus,” she greeted, bowing a bit.  
“Actually, I am Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness. And other things.”  
His face scrunched up a bit into a pout, a mass of displeasure.  
“I'm not talking about them,” he finally decided on.  
“I am well aware who you are,” she declared. “I elevated you to this status, put you on that throne and-”  
“Yawwn.”  
The disruption stopped her and she glared at Sheogorath, the fake yawn irking her more than ever. Meanwhile, Sheogorath realized his acting had gotten the desired effect.  
“Oh, pardon me. Were you saying something?”  
His tone was mischievous and playful, expected of the Mad God. Lilith's eyes narrowed as she bit back her temper just a bit, an unmoving statue as Sheogorath drew closer.  
“I do apologize, it's just that I find myself suddenly and irrevocably... BORED!”  
He was right in her ear at the last word, vanishing to reappear beside her. And yes, she was annoyed. But on the off chance Miraak was right, she wanted to exhaust every avenue.  
“Darus-”  
“I am not Darus,” Sheogorath declared.  
He seemed bored with her, swiveling and walking away, waving away cobwebs as he went. That he hadn't just poofed away meant he knew she was here for a reason and was at least a bit curious. Lilith sighed and followed after him, not too close and always ready with a ward. Just in case.  
“Amarenthine has an Elder Scroll,” Lilith said and she saw his shoulders tense.  
Whether because a part of him recalled Amarenthine or because Elder Scrolls were big deals, well, she didn't quite know.   
“In fact, she's been quite busy since I last saw her. She's put together multiple plots, collected hundred of artifacts that could plunge all of Nirn into chaos. To destroy me,” Lilith continued.  
Sheogorath paused, the absence of movement sudden and abrupt. Lilith kept the distance between them, stopping as well.  
“I have spent months searching the ruins she left behind. Because the most dangerous thing is that Scroll. And I think she left it in the Shivering Isles.”  
“No.”  
It wasn't the denial but the voice, the tone, the clarity that gave life to it. Lilith's eyes widened in shock, those slitted eyes turning to her, absent of the slits that marked him Sheogorath. Now, she truly looked at Darus  
“Darus-” Lilith began.  
“Amarenthine has not returned to the Shivering Isles,” he declared. “Not since she departed.”  
He looked upwards, gaze on the ceiling.  
“It rained that day,” he announced.  
As if on cue, the ceiling above warped, a light rain starting, steadily getting harder as it poured drops of water onto him.  
“She walked away and I yelled for her to come back, demanded my guards stop her. And she killed them easily, Order crystals springing from the ground.”  
“Like the Greymarch all over again,” Lilith recalled.  
She could understand why the memory would be so vivid. She' seen the fear and death the Greymarch had caused, could remember the terror that the citizens of New Sheoth had breathed in, every day choking on it. Mania and Dementia wanted so badly to be different and yet they were ultimately the same when it came down to it. Order crystals appearing once more anywhere in the Shivering Isles? The pandemonium would be a sight to behold.  
“Death, destruction-”  
He trailed off and with his back to her, she couldn't see his face. Until he spun around like a top, a wide grin spread across his face.  
“AND CHEESE! It was a marvelous time!”  
Sheogorath was back, so easily, banishing the clinging remnants of his former self.  
“Amarenthine-”  
“Has not been back to the Shivering Isles,” Sheogorath dismissed her, adding a wave for good measure.  
“Darus, this is-”  
“I am not Darus!” he snarled.  
The power that hit her sent Lilith to the floor, her impact stirring the dust and disturbing even more cobwebs. Enraged and flushed, Lilith shot to her feet, intent on taking action. Only to find she was completely alone.


	19. Chapter 19

“Oh, that is awful,” Falin declared,wrinkling her nose at his recounting of a very old and rather entertaining incident involving himself, a horse and a rather messy stable.  
They'd snuck out of the party, the bride to be still not cited, swiping bottles of spiced wine as they entered a garden. It was clearly private, tucked away from public access. But their shared opinion was that a garden was a much better place to invade then a bedroom. Not that he would've minded the latter option. He was startlingly aware of the hand in his and he never wanted to let go. Thus, when he'd spotted Babette looking for him, he'd encouraged her desire to escape. Babette would mean the end of his evening. And how many run ins did one man get with a woman whose mind worked like his own?  
“Ok.”  
She tilted her head back, looking up at the sky and the full moons blossoming in its dark depths.  
“Ah, I perhaps have one to top that!” she declared triumphantly.  
Still holding his hand, she skipped a bit ahead, turning to face him, her grin visible even in the dark.  
“For a rather short time, I trained with a group of mages in the College of Whispers,” she explained.  
She snorted a bit.  
“A rather big mistake as I most certainly cannot whisper.”  
“An error on their part then,” Cicero agreed.  
Falin murmured her agreement, lifting the bottle of wine to her lips before continuing.  
“My magic made me unique. Ah, yes I didn't tell you that,” she said and Cicero did not correct her. “I can wield magic. See?”  
She tossed the bottle of wine into the air, her gaze zeroing in on it as it plummeted back towards them, only to halt mid air, floating above their heads. It dangled there and he wondered if she'd crush it. Throw it perhaps? The possibilities seemed endless, staring at the bottle hanging in limbo, a tool subject to her whims.  
“They summon and interrogate Dremora,” Falin continued, still looking up at the bottle. “I had little control over my magic and very few new how to handle it.”  
Slowly, the wine bottle began sinking towards them.  
“They thought it was advanced telekinesis but it went beyond that.”  
She dropped her gaze back to him, the bottle falling only for it to land in her free hand once more.  
“My teacher was a Dremora,” she laughed. “The gist of our communication since he refused to speak anything but Daedric was grunting and occasional angry pointing.”  
She made a face, one that looked like she was about to swallow her whole face with only her bottom lip.  
“This is the face he'd make when he saw me. He knew what was coming. A whole day of dealing with me.”  
“That doesn't sound so bad.”  
“You haven't tried to teach me anything.”  
Cicero almost offered but had nothing to teach. His madness wasn't an acquired skill but part of him, a dark part he relished.  
“You know enough,” he decided on.  
Falin tossed her head back with laughter.  
“Yes indeed,” she agreed. “But the story's point wasn't the Dremora. Oh no, I was excelling with force magic. Destruction was where I ran into problems. I couldn't cast a decent flames spell. Anytime I tried, I'd produce smoke.”  
She was grinning again, her mood one that he enjoyed. When she grinned, there was the tell tale madness in her eyes that he'd seen in his own. That he didn't see nearly as often now. Her words were correct. Sanity was scary and he wanted no part in returning to it.  
“I got it in my head one day to fake it. Just to buy myself a bit of time perhaps to practice. And so I used force magic on a candle flame. And it worked. Until I set the instructor's robes on fire and he wanted nothing more to do with me.”  
“You're wicked,” Cicero declared.  
“I burned a good portion of my hair as well so ultimately it was a wasted effort of getting him to leave me alone,” she said.  
She ran a hand through her hair, the red strands falling through her finger tips like water.  
“I can't complain too much though. I-”  
She never finished, the double doors of the garden flying open, unleashing the emerald gowned elf that was Lilith. That piercing gaze went to Falin, touched with annoyance and determination. Meanwhile, she was draped in cobwebs, a fact she ignored as she pointed at them both.  
“I need both of you!” she insisted. “Now.”

 

The crowd parted like water, nervous glances directed her way. And she ignored every one, her golden gaze only on the little redguard who glared defiantly back. Yet despite her attempts to appear unaffected, Elenwen could see the fear in the way her prey squeezed the arm of her Nord escort. He'd sensed her distress, his owns eyes narrowed on her, assessing. There was a wariness there, as if he was some sort of caged animal. Most did when she entered a room, resenting her presence and what she represented. They feared her too and she so relished that, relished how powerless they were. In this room of Man, all dressed in their finery, she was the most powerful, her robes an indication. She stopped before Zadara, purposely stepping on the pale yellow fabric of her dress, never breaking eye contact to maintain some illusion that her actions were unintentional.  
“Well well,” she greeted, her eyes widening to better investigate the girl.  
“Elenwen,” Zadara greeted, her smile forced and all tooth.  
Her eyes were filled with hatred and rage.  
“How pretty,” Elenwen sneered, allowing the malice in her voice life in the form of a smile to rival Zadara's.  
How long had she hated this girl? She couldn't even remember the years that had passed, the sheer existence of this girl, living a life of affluence and luxury, a smudge on the otherwise exclusivity of the Summerset Isles nobility. She'd known it had all started, visiting an elf held superior to her, reporting to him, only to draw up short when she beheld him holding a sleeping child in his arms, the first evidence she wasn't his the dark skin marking her as redguard. Yes, that he could love something so horrendously inferior made him just as low in her eyes. Let him be stationed in Skyrim if he loved the inferior so much.  
“Certainly better than yours,” Zadara remarked.  
“The little rat gets a pretty dress and befriends a bastard's daughter and suddenly she has bite?”  
Elenwen chuckled.  
“What was your intent with this stunt?”  
Her arms swept to encase the whole of the party, the nobles straining to hear them and failing, far too fearful to venture closer.  
“Did you think I would not realize your intentions? These nobles cannot help you.”  
“My intentions?” Zadara repeated.  
She stepped closer, tilting her head back to look into Elenwen's face, releasing her companion's arm. He did not release her, one hand on her wrist. Zadara stared into Elenwen's face however.  
“My father did not raise a coward,” she declared. “He raised a warrior. If you so badly want me dead, I will make you work for it. On whatever field of battle I choose.”  
A slow grin spread across her face, one that was mocking and determined at the same time. And Elenwen hated it. Wanted to rake her nails across the girl's face, tearing the expression off if she could. But it wasn't possible. Not at the moment and she held to the barely there remnants of her temper.  
“I am not scared of you,” Zadara informed her. “You are no threat to me.”  
Elenwen leaned in close, her intent to make more threats, weaving them into the little redguard's mind as promises. But between what felt like one breath and the next, Zadara was whisked away, the sudden disappearance of both her and her male companion unnerving. Elenwen's gaze was then drawn to the tall man, a Nord if ever she saw one, Zadara accompanying him. Unlike the previous Nord, this one seemed to have time to grow to his full potential, his body solid. All she caught was the back of his head as he led Zadara away but she glared nonetheless.  
“Follow them,” she ordered of her accompanying agents. “And report everything you find back to me.”

 

“And report everything you find back to me.”  
It was an order Serana heard well, despite the lively party around her or the hissed whispers of the Nord who struggled in her grip. She almost smiled, besting him easily. When she and Miraak had spare time, a rare occurrence, they'd spar and he'd cheat as soon as she got any sort of grip on him, summoning forth a dragon aspect. Ignoring her tagalong's attempts to claim her attention, she very literally dragged him out of the room, making her way to the abandoned wing and pushing the Nord through first. As she softly closed the door behind her, careful to avoid even the click of the door sliding into place, she heard a pair of guard troop by, their footsteps in sync. The Nord, free of her grasp, turned on her, his movements near fluid. She hissed as his blade sliced through her open palm, more from surprise than pain, unable to move anywhere, her back to the door. The Nord moved instead, backing up, his dagger brandished.  
“Who are you?” he demanded though given that he'd cut her, Serana wasn't very inclined to answer him.  
“Her name is Serana.”  
Ah yes, Falin. The reason she and Miraak had been sent on the little errand of rounding up her companions. The Nord relaxed at the sight of her somewhat, his facial features settling into a clearly familiar frown.  
“And you couldn't say anything because?” he demanded.  
“Because you were antagonizing Thalmor agents and they could very well compromise this entire plan?”  
Lilith's voice drifted out from further in the abandoned wing, carried by dust particles it seemed. Serana pushed off the door, breezing past the two, careful not to touch either.  
“And before you ask, Falin couldn't go because she's unpredictable and potentially easily distracted.”  
“Oh I am not,” Falin objected, close on Serana's heels.  
The vampire glanced over her shoulder, not surprised they were following her but surprised to see Falin so blatantly staring at her butt. Those green eyes flickered to her, naughtily.  
“Problem?” she asked.  
Serana smirked, ignoring the remark as they finally joined Lilith. To her surprise, Miraak had joined them, the redguard woman he'd swept away from confrontation, looking a bit confused, clearly trying to process the events that had led her to the dust riddled wing. Serana didn't bother helping her, letting her legs carry her to Miraak's side.  
“Alright, Lilith, why are we here?” Miraak asked, acknowledging Serana when she was at his side with a nod.  
“Sheogorath was here,” Lilith reported, indicating the space around them.  
“The Mad God?” Serana asked.  
She pursed her lips.  
“Not quite who I'd expect,” she admitted but she didn't elaborate.  
“Sanguine prefers throwing his own parties,” Lilith informed them. “He prefers the freedom of being the host.”  
“Freedom,” Falin snorted, her derision going ignored.  
“Sheogorath fled before I could get any of the answers I needed,” Lilith continued. “For just a little while, I was talking to the Hero of Kvatch though. And if Amarenthine came back, he'd know. Even if Sheogorath ignores her with all his being, Darus isn't capable.”  
“How much of him could be left?” Miraak asked. “Darus I mean.”  
“Plenty,” Lilith declared. “Darus was always strong willed, especially when he had something to hold onto.”  
“So, why did you drag us into this?” Bishop demanded.  
“Well, actually Falin insisted you be here,” Lilith informed him, snapping her green gaze his way.  
She didn't stick around to watch his gaze travel to Falin, choosing instead to address them all once again.  
“If Miraak was right, the Elder Scroll is in the Shivering Isles and only Darus could possibly know where it is.”  
“So, we're going to the Shivering Isles?” Serana summed up, confused.  
“I am,” Lilith declared. “You are not.”  
Serana lifted her eyebrows in confusion and Miraak crossed his arms as if he wasn't happy.  
“Sheogorath's realm has turned many a sane man to madness,” Lilith informed them both.  
She gestured to Falin and the jester, Cicero, if Serana had caught his name correctly.  
“Have you ever met two individuals more mad than these two?” she asked them.  
“Why thank you,” Falin said, smirking.  
“I tried but can't push my way into the Shivering Isles physically,” Lilith continued as if she hadn't spoken. “So I'm going need to astral project us there.”  
“Which would leave your bodies exposed.”  
This from the redguard who'd otherwise been silent. Lilith nodded her way.  
“We'll be dealing with enough danger when on Sheogorath's turf,” Lilith reasoned. “No need to increase the danger by getting sloppy on the physical side of things.”  
“Go then,” Miraak said. “We will watch things here.”

 

The dragons were due. In her long days of imprisonment, she'd made certain to mark their coming and goings, her methods efficient and almost always exact. The passing came subtly most times, a portal opening up and letting them slip in. Amarenthine spent much of her time on the ground, amongst shadows. Now, she was perched atop one of the bookcases, unmoving, allowing the shadows to hug her. Below, she could hear the lurkers and seekers, their scurrying evident as they sought her out. For the moment, their master had lost her. It was his realm, however, and soon it would betray her. She welcomed it to as she wouldn't be there any longer. Right then, that thought giving itself life seemed to summon them, the dragons, another duo, slipped into the realm. And she leapt, torpedoing herself further into the air until she landed on the first dragon. She used his horns to her advantage, slinging herself across his back as he swung his tail to try to dislodge her. Amarenthine laughed aloud at his attempt, latching onto his tail. Her body was strong, her grip stronger and he swung her, finally, at his kin, those jaws snapping at, barely grazing her hair. She released the tail, flying at the other dragon, her crystals bursting forward in her defense, stabbing into the draconian skin. She used them as stepping stones, dancing through the emptiness of the air, closer and closer to the portal, aware of the bleeding dragon below her and the charging one behind her. Nothing stood between her and the portal, her last grasp at freedom now that she had revealed her hand. She leapt, sending her crystals shooting back, willing them to slow the charging dragon as she slid into the ethereal portal they'd come through, hearing the sound of jaws snapping shut and crystals hitting scales behind her as she just barely made it. The portal closed behind her and she careened out the other side, her landing not at all graceful. She hit the ground, dust stirred up by her less than impressive descent. For a few minutes, she laid there, relishing the sense of freedom. Apocrypha didn't have dirt. It had shadows and sludge, molded pages and fresh ink, some secrets collected and recorded still fresh. Standing, Amarenthine threw back her brown hair, staring at the world around her, taking it in. It was too perfect, everything too sharp in detail. Another realm. One she knew. Sovengarde. The dragons were flooding in from Sovengarde? Something struck her from behind, the force seemingly amplified by the feel of armor. She let out an grunt, instantly in fight mode. She twisted, her crystal skin sharpening, stabbing her attacker. Her attack was successful, blood sliding down one. Her attacker retreated, lifting her head, murderous blue eyes glaring at her. Syra. The halfling lifted one gloved hand. Her glove was a sight, the finger tips were sharp, perfect for tearing apart a foe bare handed. It matched her armor, form fitting and secured in such a complicated looking way that Amarenthine couldn't even begin to assume where one started to take it off. Syra's eyes flitted to her glove and then back to Amarenthine.  
“I see you do bleed,” she remarked.  
Her lips parted in a cold sneer, her other hand lifting to bring a mask to her face, securing it over her mouth and nose. Amarenthine took a moment to glance at her arm and sure enough, she was bleeding, her blood only a few shades darker than her skin, the almost black liquid obvious. Wide eyed, she looked back at Syra only to find the halfling charging her again. Amarenthine threw up her hands, her crystals tearing across the ground. Syra dodged them with relative ease, as if this fight had played out in her mind before. She feinted right only to attack from the left, her fist nearly shattering Amarenthine's face. Enraged now that a mortal would even dare, she reached out, seizing hold of the Syra's arm, throwing the little wretch over her shoulder. Syra crashed to the ground,rolling out of the way as Amarenthine sent a crystal speeding towards her strewn form, the spiked weapon piercing the ground. With a wave of her arm, Amarenthine commanded the crystal to shatter, directing the pieces at Syra. The halfling was on her feet, the small crystals bouncing off her armor, the sound of them shattering filling the air. And didn't that piss Amarenthine off all the more. Or perhaps it was the smug look of satisfaction in Syra's eyes. There was no hint of the uncertain or fearful mess she'd faced months ago. She wanted her to break. Wanted the halfling to bleed. And it was increasingly and annoyingly more obvious that she was going to need more help. Against every fiber of her being, she retreated, fleeing the battle and the smug halfling, to return at a later time.

 

He lifted his head, ignoring those gathered, relishing in the madness that only revelry could produce. It had drawn him to Solitude initially, the sweet temptation almost too much to pass up. His slitted eyes practically glowed in excitement, the feedback he received from his realm, his seat of power so much stronger than the mortals' lackluster realm. He tilted his head a bit, wisps of his hair brushing across his forehead.  
“How interesting,” he murmured to himself.  
He rose from his throne, his place of honor, his steps carrying him down the stairs. With no glances cast his way, his subjects parted, a clear path awarded him as was his right. Long since the Greymarch's end, he'd redecorated, the palace adorned now with floor to ceiling windows, allowing him to look beyond the walls of his sanctuary, over New Sheoth. Looking out did little good as darkness settled comfortably over his mad world. But he could sense something most tantalizing radiating beyond the glass beneath his hands as he touched it.  
“My liege?”  
Haskill was clearly concerned. Perhaps suspicious? Who knew? Did he care?  
“What is it?”  
“You can't sense it?” he replied, knowing full well how his chamberlain hated when he answered questions with questions.  
Haskill looked out at the night, his brow furrowed as he sought to sense what Sheogorath did. And clearly unable to. It was rather disappointing if he was being honest. He stepped back, his hand falling away from the glass.  
“Prepare our best cheese, Haskill!” he declared, his slip of the tongue revealing the complete lack of effort he'd put into organizing for the snooty nobles surrounding him. “We must only have the best. A Septim has come to visit!”

 

New Sheoth. She could remember seeing it last. She'd stood in the castle's courtyard, alive with energy, with the knowledge that Jyggalag was free, the Greymarch was no more and that finally, finally, she could put the crises behind her. She smirked now, of course, knowing about Umaril rising up and knowing that the crisises she had to deal with then had most certainly not been over.  
“I see the castle, I see the castle!” Cicero sang cheerfully  
Sure enough, he pointed straight ahead, the castle alight. A party then? She wasn't too worried. A party would greatly shift the Mad God's mood. Perhaps enough that he'd receive her.  
“It would be a grievous insult to come here and not make our presence known,” Lilith announced.  
“Well we are dressed for a party,” Falin pointed out, her tone innocent, her smile not.  
But she wasn't wrong.  
“I warn you,” she said, lifting her skirt a bit as she began walking. “Sheogorath is unpredictable and has an ability to slip between realms that is unheard of amongst his peers. He cannot harm our astral projections as we're not entirely real but a Daedric Prince never forgets.”  
“Any ideas why he can slip through realms so easily?” Falin asked.  
“No.”  
Lilith's voice was careful and precise. And obvious. Falin cocked her head.  
“Not a one? You're the Arch Mage. And with your lineage-”  
Lilith stopped, casting a confused glance at the halfling. She couldn't remember if Falin had been present when she'd confessed the truth of her parentage to Syra and the rest. And if she hadn't, how had she known. She studied the woman carefully but Falin was as hard to read as ever, her attention on Cicero who she playfully threatened with a randomly acquired cattail.  
“Don't be so flippant with Sheogorath. He doesn't idly threaten dismemberment.”  
Her words were well meaning and she suspected that had Miraak or Serana been with her, an argument or flippant comment would have followed. Falin merely shrugged, her own skirts raised high enough to show the bare feet beneath her dress. And if it wasn't a perfect summary of the odd halfling, well, Lilith didn't know what was.


	20. Chapter 20

His sister's face was always clear. Centuries had passed, wars had raged, so many interesting and new memories had flooded his mind, piercing the thick veil of madness to what few remnants of the man he had once been. And he could remember only the intricate details of Sifth's face. He always had someone to come back to, so long as she remained. And the same was true of Amarenthine. They centered him, kept him grounded, entertained him when he was too lonely and too sorrowful, realizing the deaths that had paved the path of his destiny. His parents, his brother, Martin. People he should've saved. People he could save now, with the power he had. If he'd only acquired it sooner. Choosing not to ruminate on those points, points with enough emotional power to pierce the fog, he felt his mind shift away. Correction, their mind. Often his mind and Sheogorath's would merge, their thoughts and goals in line. But every so often, he would retreat. And if he got too noisy, too distracting, Sheogorath would seize hold of his thoughts as if they were tangible and yank him back. Now their mind was on the Septim bloodline. The part of him that was Sheogorath eagerly recalled Pelagius the third, the mad emperor whose legacy still stained Solitude with its influence. And of course, what little that was still Darus, well, he thought to Uriel. To the man that had seen him in his dreams and seen the potential he had where no one else ever had. All because his stars lined up and his face had flashed in the man's dream. Sifth had laughed at first. And then the world had fallen apart around them. But with Martin, all the Septims were said to have died. It made no sense then, the echoing of madness that seemed to spread through the Shivering Isles like a fog, the special kind that only Pelagius's mind had been laced with. If he wasn't already mad, well, he'd say the suspense was maddening. The doors opened then, a saint and a sinner on each of them. A perfect balance. And they let in yet another familiar face, one only ever ingrained in his mind when he heard her name, a rare occurrence. Lilithiana or Lilith. He heard tell she was Arch Mage now. My my, hadn't Julianos been rather high and mighty for one who'd crowed her name with disgust upon news of her creation. Sheogorath did not regard her much. She was the daughter of what had once been his other half. And so, yes, he had reason to resent her. But all he felt daily towards her was indifference. That indifference was annoyance now. She hadn't been invited to his party and had irked him prior. The whole situation had fouled his mood for all of two minutes but those two minutes were enough for him to decide that he was decidedly done with her. He knew the minute her boring, matching eyes fell on him, their green gaze locked on his face. She let the fabric of her skirts fall, adding more drama to her entrance. He rolled his eyes but waited, letting her reach him.  
“Sheogorath,” she greeted, courtesying before him from his position on his throne.  
Finally she was showing him the proper respect, respect he deserved. Hence, y'know, the throne. He nodded, barely, looking over her shoulder. One male and one female. The green eyes drew him and his gaze widened ever so slightly, curious as he studied the little elf. She seemed to recognize him, her lips upturning when she noticed his gaze. There was no deference, no cowering. It was rather off putting. But then, he could feel it. So much stronger now. That Septim blood. It was greatness and corruption mixed together, madness and potential, an eternal struggle that hadn't presented itself in any other blood line he'd ever encountered. And damn if the elf didn't practically glow with it.  
“Astral forms?” Sheogorath observed, dismissively.  
He sniffed.  
“I suspect that counts as fine,” he pouted.  
“I had no choice,” Lilith admitted in her own defense. “Since you ran away.”  
“Don't you mean Darus ran away?” Sheogorath threw back, sneering.  
“Depends on where he ends and you begin,” Lilith retorted, tone measured.  
He rose swiftly, glaring and enraged, placing himself before her, the weight of his displeasure in his eyes. He had to be mindful, aware of the audience present, each of the little mad nobles watching them, their eavesdropping terribly hidden by their continuing conversations.  
“What do you want?” he demanded, keeping the growl in his voice to a minimum.  
“I want to see Dyus.”  
That was it. The room fell into a dead silence at her words, at her audacity. Certainly she couldn't really want anything to do with such a relic of the past. A past she had been instrumental in freeing them from.  
“No.”  
His response was low and dangerous, his face morphing to convey his desire to rip out her tongue and feed it to her, something she imagined he'd readily do if she was physically before him. A tone he wouldn't be called on both as the realm's master and as Dyus was so closely associated with Jyggalag. A god now free of the wastes and looking for a realm. Lilith had come in and brought forth a new god of madness, a permanent god. What was to stop her from bringing back her father?  
“If you won't help me find Amarenthine's cache, he will,” Lilith declared.  
“He won't,” Sheogorath snarled.  
“What stops him? What can you do to him? You hold nothing over him! Dyus doesn't fear you!” Lilith declared.  
“I'll kill him,” Sheogorath replied simply.  
He had moved closer, so close she could see his rage bubbling in his slitted gaze and the faint blossoming of Darus's brown. Whose temper she faced now was a mystery. But either one could be dangerous.  
“You cannot protect her.”  
Lilith dropped her voice, her words only meant to be between the two of them.  
“She manipulated time, killed one of Hircine's own and her actions cost Mora a trophy. She has crossed any number of your peers and would only bring further ire upon your head.”  
She gestured to the windows, his new pride, indicating the hills outside, hidden by night's curtain.  
“How long?” she asked, lifting her voice for all to hear. “How long before an army comes? How long before Amarenthine's misdeeds fall to you? Before your peers rely on old tricks and rip you apart and mold you back together as something different? As someone new?”  
“I am not Jyggalag!” Sheogorath proclaimed, voice booming, bouncing off the walls around them.  
“No,” Lilith agreed. “Because you were once Darus. The Hero of Kvatch, of Bruma! You wanted to protect the innocent!”  
She gestured to the people gathered, the inhabitants of Sheogorath's world.  
“They are innocent!” Lilith proclaimed. “And Amarenthine? She is not!”  
“Enough!”  
His roar was followed by a wave of power, one that passed through Lilith and her companions but slammed mercilessly into his guests. They scattered in fear, some clawing their way across the floor while others took the time getting to their feet.  
“Run, run to where you came,” sang Lilith's male companion. “Flee the man who is insane!”  
“You're not helping,Cicero,” Lilith hissed.  
Sheogorath slumped in his seat, his party essentially at an end.  
“Why Dyus?” he demanded, head hanging just enough that his face was partly shadowed.  
“He's been around longer,” Lilith reasoned. “He knew Amarenthine in the beginning.”  
She shrugged. Sheogorath lifted his head, one eye fully brown and the other slitted.  
“I know her better,” he declared.  
“You won't tell me anything,” Lilith said. “You're fighting me on this. And I just... I need to stop her. The only conceivable reason she took that Scroll is because it can tip me off to more of her plans. Plans to hurt innocents. Innocents I'm supposed to protect.”  
“You did not think of innocents when you recruited me. In fact, you destroyed me,” Sheogorath pointed out.   
“I saw your future,” Lilith admitted. “Self destruction was to be your downfall. You were burnt out on battle, on watching innocents and comrades die. You didn't have another war in you. And war was coming sooner than we hoped.”  
“You saved me by cursing me.”  
“I sacrificed you,” Lilith corrected. “Simple and despicable as that. But I'm different now. Better.”  
“No you're not,” he declared. “You'd do it all over again if you had to. If it meant saving your father.”  
“You'd do it too if it meant saving Amarenthine.”  
The woman behind Lilith spoke up, her voice confident.  
“Falin,” Lilith warned, voice low.  
Falin ignored her, stepping forth. And he knew. He looked into green eyes that danced with a hidden madness, a madness her mind was already geared to because of ancestry but one only experience could fully achieve. She wasn't afraid of him and that wasn't even the maddest thing about her.  
“I know when people are lying,” Falin admitted. “Its all about the intentions.”  
“You're claiming to know my intentions then?” he asked.  
Falin chuckled.  
“You love her. Still. She could bring ruin to you and you would still love her.”  
She smiled and the expression was sad.  
“I've been there. Been so burnt out and so tired. It hollows you out.”  
She tilted her head, loose strands of her red hair cascading down her shoulders.  
“You go through the motions of living. You get up,force your body to get through the day because its more bothersome to hint that somethings wrong. You don't realize of course how dead you are until something or someone comes along to make you feel alive.”  
She was moving closer to him, reading him like a book, almost like beneath all that was Sheogorath she could only see Darus.  
“I'm going to guess that that was Amarenthine for you.”  
“I had nothing left,” he admitted.  
“Try being a child slave with force magic,” Falin retorted. “There comes a point where you're no longer a person. You're a commodity. And people don't always handle their possessions with care.”  
He stared at her, not quite sure how to respond or if he even wanted to. Rather he let his eyes drift to Lilith, the woman also unsure what her next move would be, gaze flickering between the two of them. It almost made him laugh but he controlled himself.  
“Go then,” he said. “Visit Dyus. Beat a dead horse further. But you-”  
He locked his eyes back on Falin, who still stared at him with an impressive facade of no concern.  
“You're going to stay.”

 

The air was tense, which was an understatement. Zadara didn't pay it much mind, glancing over her shoulder at every sound. Her guard was raised and Bishop responded in turn, pacing, his path taking him in little half circles that kept Serana and Miraak in his sight line. Miraak remained stone still, watching them carefully, following Bishop's movements but fluttering back to Zadara every so often. He barely flinched at Serana's presence behind him, despite her own pacing which had her brushing past him. The only acknowledgment to that he made was a small smile the first time it had happened and a subtle tic at the corner of his eye to indicate that perhaps he wanted to look but didn't dare.  
“You're tense.”  
Zadara wasn't even aware that she'd planned to speak. The words poured out of her, unbidden. But apparently they did not offend as Miraak inclinced his head in her direction, his gaze still able to follow Bishop.  
“I am,” he confessed. “I do not know either of you. As opposed to your associate there, who I fought alongside.”  
“Oh?” Zadara whispered.  
She couldn't imagine it. This Miraak was tall,even for a Nord. But built like a wall. It was hard to wrap her mind around him ever needed someone alongside him in battle. And of course Falin, despite the copious amounts of reason to doubt her mental stability, was her own army all in one.  
“We fought Alduin together,” Miraak replied, his disposition shifting, features darkening.  
“In Windhelm?”  
Bishop finally spoke up. He was very obviously sulking but made a show as if he wasn't.  
“Nasty bit of business,” he continued. “Lot of bodies left behind.”  
His nose scrunched up in disgust.  
“From what I hear, most were in pieces.”  
“I know well how to kill a man,” Miraak declared. “And how to disable one. Imply what you would like but know that any death was necessary.”  
Bishop fell silent, chastised it seemed. Miraak words were an efficient end to the conversation, silence descending on them once more. Serana, who had seemed to ignore the conversation, tilted her head, the first indication that any noise had gotten her attention.  
“What is it?” Bishop asked, instantly alert.  
“Footsteps,” Serana replied, quietly.  
As if on cue, there were the sounds of footsteps above them.  
“The Thalmor,” Zadara announced. “It has to be.”  
“You're out of the eye of the nobility,” Bishop said. “It makes sense they're making their move now.”  
“They were already circling when Falin left the ballroom,” Miraak declared. “You wouldn't have been safe long.”  
“If she stays here, she's doomed,” Bishop said. “We all are.”  
As the other three looked at him, Bishop let out a ragged and long suffering breath.  
“This is the Pelagius Wing. Its forbidden and has been closed off for a long time. Hence all the dust, you know. We're trespassing.”  
Serana made a face, directing only a fraction of it at Lilith's unconscious form. Go figure the elf mage would have no qualms trespassing without letting them know.  
“It doesn't sound like they're in the Wing yet,” Bishop announced, gaze fixed on the ceiling above their heads.  
He glanced Zadara's way.  
“You need to go. They throw us in jail, its no big. You? The Thalmor will swoop in and make off with you.”  
“And how do you propose she escape?” Serana inquired. “She's dressed rather noticeable.”  
“The same way you dragged her in here,” Bishop shot back, his gaze flashing to Miraak.  
Miraak lifted an eyebrow, his gaze drifting in the direction of the window in question. He hadn't even liked using that way in in the first place. Too much open courtyard, too much potential to be seen. As an escape route it was not ideal. He looked at Zadara now.  
“It is risky. If they happen to look out the window, they will see you.”  
“I'll be fast,” Zadara replied.  
“Keep running,” Serana instructed. “Their hold on Solitude is near absolute. It won't be safe.”  
Zadara gave her a firm nod.  
“I know. And I'm ready.”

 

She'd been purposely silent in regards to Cicero's presence on their trek across the Shivering Isles. A journey she remembered taking centuries ago was certainly much shorter when the landscape very obviously shifted around them. At Sheogorath's bidding no less. Her mind alternated between the past and the mad pairing that was Cicero and Falin. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea, her mind instantly summoning images of Nirn going up in flames. Shaking off that rather unpleasant image, she instead let her mind return to Dyus. Her memories of him were faint, as a result of so much time gone by and very little opportunity for her to visit the Shivering Isles. She simply recalled a wraith of a man, rejuvenated by the Greymarch, alive again despite being incapable of a final death. Approaching his domain, where he remained virtually caged, she could now see that that energy, the radiance that had livened him was gone. He was a shell now, the light that had been within him snugged out. Lilith did so hate facing her past. It rarely painted her in a pleasant light, the attitude she'd approached everything with. So like the Divine and Daedric lords that often scorned her existence. It did not sit well with her. The downside to her rather improved attitude was the feelings of guilt when she was confronted with the remnants of her handiwork. The lives she ruined. All to achieve her goals. Dyus was just another casualty, a victim. Her victim.  
“Dyus,” Lilith greeted, stopping just shy of drawing too close.  
The stuffiness was the same as were the feelings of claustrophobia, worsened by Cicero's presence. Her trips before to Dyus had always been solo, the final one having been just shy of crossing paths with Darus. The memory of scampering up the hill, sequestering herself behind warped excuses for treees fresh in her mind. Back then, she'd griped about dirtying her robes. Now, now she wished she'd interceded, stopped Darus, found someone new. Or even another way. Anything was better than the image of Windhelm in her mind, the great Palace of Kings collapsed and innocents' blood staining the snow. She wanted to amend that thought the second Dyus's dim eyes rose to hers, the mixture of emotion near toxic. She could see disdain in those washed out depths, disappointment as well. There would be rage there as well but she suspected that after two centuries his anger had simply snuffed itself out as he was incapable of acting on it. Better to wallow in his disappointment and sorrow then let a passion burn in him.  
“Ah, the prodigal daughter returns,” he said, his voice lacking the enthusiasm his words seemed to need. “Come to raise the hopes of an old man again, hm?”  
“I came to find information regarding Amarenthine,” Lilith replied.  
“And what makes you think I have it?” Dyus demanded.  
He kept his voice measured, every word calculated. He disguised it well, an undertone of haughtiness catching her ear. He hoped to distract her from something by daggering her pride and sense of self importance. Things she still had but kept in check with a humbleness she hadn't possessed when they'd last encountered each other. She almost smiled but kept herself in check.  
“You were around when Amarenthine was still a child, freshly created,” Lilith pressed.  
“And I paid her as much mind as I did you,” was his response.  
Cicero was suddenly too close, hovering, his breath on Lilith's ear.  
“He's lying,” he whispered.  
She knew. Even before the jester had leapt to tell her, she knew. Dyus had loved her father. He had heralded the Greymarch with as much enthusiasm as a man could, trapped as he was.  
“All the knowledge you hold here and you mean to tell me you can't tell me even a single fact about Amarenthine?” Lilith checked, testing his resolve.  
“That is correct.”  
“You're lying.”  
Lilith allowed her voice to be harsh and sharp. Something was off and she couldn't quite place it. And that frustrated her.  
“There's not a thing you can do if I was,” Dyus said, his words, dead as they were, a taunt.  
But also a truth.

 

“I knew Martin.”  
The way his topics jumped, she knew there was more Sheogorath surfaced then there was Darus. So she didn't mind too much. But the words certainly captured her attention.  
“Martin?”  
“Septim,” Sheogorath confirmed.  
Falin let out a long breath through her nose, indicating the topic to be one that she wasn't fond of.  
“Go on.”  
Sheogorath barked out a laugh.  
“He wasn't mad. Not like others of the Septim line. Not like you.”  
“I am a Mede,” Falin corrected. “Not a Septim.”  
“I see hints of it in you, you know,” Sheogorath went on, completely ignoring her objections. “The madness. Scary isn't it?”  
“The Septims are gone,” Falin declared.  
“It was a big deal, you know. Martin sacrificing himself. The Septims-”  
“Are. No.More,” Falin said with finality.  
She faced the Mad God, all resolve.  
“My madness was a learned madness. Tunneled into my mind. It did not just appear one day. It formed and was reinforced. Besides that, I am a Mede,” Falin declared. “Because in this day and age it is far too dangerous to be a Septim.”  
He opened his mouth, ready to speak further only for the palace doors to fly open, startling them both. Falin got ready to fight, the response an instinct despite the fact that the sum total of her interactioon with the world around her astral form had been tickling Cicero with a cottontail. At first, Sheogorath stood with her, prepared for a fight. His resolve faltered, however, as Amarenthine strutted into the room. She was a mess, chinks in her crystallized skin, the glow of power she'd had last Falin had seen her absent. Her hair was covered by a hood that cast shadows on her face and those green eyes of hers went to him, barely sparring Falin a glance.  
“Darus,” she greeted, a guarded element to her voice.  
“Sheogorath,” he corrected, almost automatically.  
“Of course,” Amarenthing amended. “Sheogorath.”  
She sounded disappointed, a flicker of old pain in her eyes. And beside her, she could practically see Darus emerge, clawing his way forward. He wanted her. He'd always want her. Even if it wasn't in his best interest.  
“I've come for my cache,” Amarenthine continued, their greetings done.  
She was still moving, crossing the room, always mindful of Sheogorath. His gaze, meanwhile, never once left her.  
“I don't have it,” he insisted.  
“I know. Then again I was not speaking to you.”  
Sheogorath looked to Falin, as if she could possibly know what Amarenthine meant. Only for the floor beneath them to shake, the marble splitting, the throne room echoing with the sound of shattering glass. “This world belonged to my father,” Amarenthine announced. “It remembers me well.”  
As if to drive her point home, the ground produced it. An Elder Scroll. Falin had only seen images, often grainy and colorless, drawn by hand. But nothing else could shine so, the magic that surrounded it unable to fully diminsh the Scroll's regality.  
“She can't have that scroll,” Falin declared, squaring off as if she meant to attack.  
Amarenthine's bored gaze fell on her, a smirk gracing her lips as she observed the halfling.  
“Astral projection, hm?” she remarked. “There is little you can do to me. But plenty I can do to you.”  
“Amarenthine-” Sheogorath objected, his magic kicking in full force, a staff appearing in hand as he moved.  
He looked determined, as if he meant to right the insult she'd done unto him, his realm and his power. Amarenthine did not heed his objection, lifting the hand that didn't clasp the Elder Scroll, her focus solely on Falin. The halfling chose that moment to strike, charging forth, tapping into her force magic. The connection and grasping it was akin to wading through a swamp, as if she was brushing aside mud and ick to reach her magic. Distracted by the difficulty, she took her attention off Amarenthine, the woman's magic hitting her, thrusting her away as surely as her force magic did foes. The hit cleared her block, her magic surging past the barrier that had interfered and on instinct, Falin lashed forward before she could truly think. Where Amarenthine had stood, so smug, now stood Miraak who braced, her magic hitting him and knocking him back into a wall, filling the room with dust and a loud crash as he knocked aside tables, chairs and discarded barrels on his way. Surprised, Falin took a moment to get her bearings, observing her surroundings, noting that Lilith and Cicero remained unconscious on the floor around her. While she had been forced out.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1)Okay, so AO3 is WAAAAY behind Deviantart for which I apologize. Please note I am working to resolve the Darus/Darrus problem.  
> 2) Bishop is the product of Bioware, first and foremost, and Mara of the Skyrim Romance Mod  
> 3)A bit of a disclaimer there: Lilith and many of the things Lilith can do are me taking creative license. Lilith being a mind reader/able to talk to the gods/princes in TLD is all me and is an ability she no longer has in the canon of my story because of her vampirism. There are a few other instances of me buffin' up Lilith's resume so to speak but even without my embellishments, Lilith is kickass (GO TO THE TUMBLR AND LOOK UP ARCHMAGE LILITHIANNA! SO MANY STORIES TO BE TOLD).

Cover escaped her but the party, in full swing, was so unruly and entertaining no one noticed. Fleeing past panes of glass, she could see that the bride to be had finally arrived, awash in the glow that was her guests' attention. The groom to be not so much. Zadara would've chuckled, recognizing the telltale signs of an arranged marriage if she'd still been part of the party. As it was, she hoisted her gown, revealing the comfortable but out of place boots she'd chosen instead of dancing slippers. They sped her progress, her footfalls sturdy and sure as she bolted away from the Blue Palace, careful to dodge guard and citizen alike. Just in case. The Thalmor had spies everywhere and she was most certainly a prize. Ahead of her, she could see the market. Beyond that would be the city's massive gates. And her freedom. She allowed herself to relax just a bit, slowing to a jog, hearing no one behind her and no indication that that would change. Only for her to be proven wrong, yanked through the metal gated doors that she had been certain were locked. Her elbow banged rather painfully against the bars as the gates creaked closed before her very eyes.  
“Quiet,” hissed Thaille, blending well with the darkness, his large form wrapped in what had to be a blanket.  
Nothing else would have fit his large frame. He was leaving nothing to chance, plucking Zadara off her feet and carrying her further down the tunnel, her automatic response to the action to kick shut the black gate he had ignored. A good thing she did too, able to see over Thaille's broad shoulder, her heart nearly stopping at the dark armored Thalmor spies that crept past, no doubt assuming that she'd headed for the gates. As quick as she saw them, they were replaced with the stone walls of a staircase, Thaille taking her underground. He moved fast but quietly.  
“Why are you here?” Zadara whispered, careful to direct her question into the sound capturing black of Thaille's blanket cape.  
Her ears simultaneously strained for any sign they were being followed. Silence returned to her and so she knew her question would not summon Thalmor upon them.  
“I have spies,” Thaille reminded her.  
Ah, yes. Spies. They generally went well in hand with spymasters. It really did explain everything.  
“You could've sent your spies to retrieve me,” Zadara pointed out.  
“I need my spies in place more than they need a spymaster. This network belonged to Falin's father originally,” Thaille explained.  
He seemed aware and comfortable in the fact that they weren't being followed, swinging Zadara gently to her feet. Her boots landed in dirt rather than on stone and she realized they were before a set of wooden doors. Thaille rapped his knuckles on the door, the beat a pattern that Zadara carefully tracked, memorizing it though she doubted it would be used again. There was no responding knock and Thaille nodded to himself before he turned to Zadara.  
“We'll wait here a few minutes,” he declared and unable to find reason to object, Zadara nodded.  
Thaille smiled at her briefly, probably in a means of calming her.  
“Anyway, Falin's dad passed it on,” he continued, picking up a conversation she thought had dropped.  
“To Falin?”  
Zadara was skeptical. Very little about Falin said subtle. And weren't spymasters?  
“No. Falin's older sister took over for a bit. Then Falin,” Thaille correct rather matter of factly. “She ran it pretty well. They both did.”  
“So how is it you came to take over?” Zadara inquired.  
“Falin has no taste for deception,” Thaille replied. “She prefers honesty and for things to be on the up and up.”  
“And she calls herself a noble,” Zadara sniped.  
Thaille, clearly amused, opened his mouth as if to speak but was quickly interrupted by a responding knock, the pattern matching his. His jaw clenched and he tensed, little relief to be found in his reaction. He glanced Zadara's way and for a second, his dark gaze seemed to flash.  
“That door opens? Run. There's a smaller boat. The fisherman is paid to get you to Windhelm.”  
As he spoke, he navigated a sack of coins into her hands, tightening her fingers around them, squeezing her hands as if to drive home the point.  
“Get to Riften from there and take cover at Goldenglow Estate,” he continued.  
“An estate isn't very conspicuous.”  
“The owner will get you in contact with the Thieves Guild,” Thaille assured her.  
And she nodded, despite the million other questions she had. Something, perhaps the growling undertone in his voice, halted all her questions. The knock came again, a desperate edge to it this time. Thaille nudged her aside, rolling his shoulders. She noticed he had no weapons on him, the blanket shifting enough to reveal the same pants he'd worn when she met him. Staring at him, she saw the exact moment the black fur rippled across his body. That large form contorted, the sound of joints popping reaching her instantly. Yet despite what had to be a painful or at least uncomfortable transformation, Thaille surged forward, heavy body slamming against the wooden doors. They exploded from the impact, his body complete its transformation amongst the falling splinters. Zadara was shellshocked as the werewolf that once had been Thaille landed atop a Thalmor agent, wasting no time as he ripped out the elf's throat with his teeth, staining the gleaming white rows with blood. There were shouts of confusion and swears as they realized what they were confronting. In that chaos, somehow, Zadara got her legs moving. She took off, sprinting across the shards of the door, hearing more shouts as she was recognized in the glow of both torches and mage light. Those shouts were followed by werewolf snarls as Thaille would leap on any who would dare to pursue her. Despite that, she could still hear footsteps behind her and she didn't dare look back, pumping her arms as if it would make her run faster. It took far too long for the slaughter behind her to be swallowed by the night and even longer for her to make it to the mill, ignoring the two mill workers still working late into the night. But wisely, they didn't demand of her an answer as to why she was bolting through the night. Noticeably absent were the guards, the likes of which wouldn't all be pulled as security for the party. They still had a Hold to protect after all. Her only explanation was that Thaille was that good at what he did, a true spymaster, always a hundred steps ahead.

 

Solid. The Elder Scroll was solid in her hands. She felt infinitely better, the threat of Mora himself instantly reduced now that she held something that guaranteed he would keep his distance. She wanted to smile but her attention instead went to Sheogorath. Every part of her longed to call him Darus, to take him into her arms and act as though centuries hadn't cemented their separation. Instead, she lashed out, her power revived, reconneced with shards of herself she'd utilized to contain the Scroll. He defened, as she knew he would, her crystals swallowing him, a tight cage that he'd easily break out of. In time. Next, she cast her power outward. Because the little elf wasn't the only one who had made their way into the Shivering Isles. And yes, Lilith was so easy to find. Her magic was a flair, a unique mixture of Divine and Daedra. Amarenthine's smile crawled its way across her face and she casually lifted her free hand, able to see her little half sister and the companion that had accompanied her. Dyus seemed to share her amusement, able to see the crystal shards piercing the ground and knowing well what they meant. Lilith went on the defensive, looking around for a foe that was miles away and right by her side all at the same time. She couldn't decide which she liked better. Tormenting Lilith with distance or tearing into her up close. She had time for neither, really, her plans already falling into place. So she chose to speed things along, her crystal shards raining down, able to reach past the astral plain, inflicting damage to what was real. What would hurt. And she made certain her attack was merciless.

 

Leaving the astral plain was meant to be a delicate process, to avoid trauma. But the threat of injury was greater and Lilith pushed them away from what could only be Amarenthine's ambush. She sat up, gasping, arms flailing as she shot up straight. Her heartbeat was rather erratic. For a split second, she was blind. Only to find herself grounded by a strong grip on her shoulder. And she looked up, her gaze centering, at last, on Serana's face. The vampire was staring down at her, eyes wild. Lilith could tell why, feeling the blood seeping from miniscule cuts before she even looked for them.  
“Are you two okay?”  
Falin was there as well, pushing her face very close to Serana's. She was observing the damage, Lilith realized. While she herself was perfectly fine. Lilith dragged her eyes away from the two hovering women, looking at her hands. Blood was oozing slowly from tiny cuts on her wrists. And with some willpower, she called forth a spell, watching them close. But she was exhausted.  
“We should be fine,” she finally answered, her words breaking the silence that had settled on the room.  
She needed sleep. Badly. But she could tough it out for just a bit longer. If only to keep her position as Arch Mage secure. Looking at Cicero, she wasn't surprised to find him admiring his hands and the bleeding wounds there. Lilith had gotten the brunt of her sister's attack really and his were mostly stray whispers, only catching his hands and cheek.  
“We've been gone at least an hour,” Miraak observed. “Perhaps two.”  
“I doubt Vittoria misses me,” Falin joked. “I have a bad habit of scandalizing parties.”  
“We're going to need that particular talent,” Bishop informed her. “I don't really want to spend the night in jail.”  
Falin's grin was face splitting, extending from ear to ear.  
“A distraction you want, a distraction you'll get.”  
She cast her eyes to Cicero, cozying up against him.  
“Want to help?” she asked, as if any man would say no.  
Serana pulled Lilith to her feet, supporting her when Lilith stumbled just a bit.  
“We'll leave the same way Zadara did,” Bishop informed Falin. “Whatever you two plan to do, be loud.”  
“I'm nothing but,” Falin replied, confirming that she'd gotten the message.  
All the while, her grin never left her face.

 

Assassins went well with court. At least she thoughts so. Her fingers brushed delicately against the stone walls and she lifted her jaw. How many had teased her for her regality, her sultry walk? Her ability to draw attention to herself with little thought of doing so. In short, Hekth could make an entrance. That ability came natural to her. And she could weigh the reactions her appearance caused. There was a bristle from every female, their glares turned on her, only one weakened or tempered by a curosity. The males gathered were different. She could see a hunger there, for flesh rather than blood, as they realized she was of their kind. A vampire. They no doubt could sense the danger she possessed. A trait weaker vampires seemed attracted to. Her goal, however, was the vampire atop the throne. Harkon. She heard whispers from time to time, crossing paths with other vampires when she ventured out to feed. She always listened intently now, knowing Dyre's apparent connection to the monster. As soon as her red gaze landed on him, she knew. She knew he was deadly, perhaps moreso than she herself. She did not fear however and certainly did not show that she had assessed him as a threat, stopping a few feet from him, smack dab in the center of the tables, enemies on all sides.  
“Harkon, I presume?” Hekth greeted.  
Her insolence fired him up instantly. She bit back a smile, knowing better than to betray her nonchalance.  
“Who are you?” Harkon demanded.  
He was careful to temper his rage, lounging in his throne rather than flying from it, as he so obviously wanted to.  
“And why have you come to intrude upon my court?”  
Hekth allowed a smile now to creep upon her face and she gave a quick curtsy, the expression conveying that she meant to mock him with the gesture.  
“We share a common acquaintance,” Hekth replied, very obviously bypassing introducing herself.  
The disrespect was subtle, easy for him to see but hard to justify. If his court missed it and he brought attention to it, they would mock him. He would lose ground in keeping them in line. If they saw it and he ignored it, the result would very well be the same thing. Ah, she so loved court.  
“A shared acquaintance does not justify your presence,” Harkon retorted.  
He very obviously was not welcoming her, not backing down but only using a rudeness that was warranted. Hekth admired his reserve and ability to calculate. She could see where Dyre had gained such a talent for manipulation.  
“Surely our appearances are not so different that you cannot see some resemblance. I am told we have the same eyes,” Hekth mocked him openly.  
The only thing Dyre had ever gotten from her were her eyes. Such a unique trait in Nords. Red eyes. Yet somewhat common when it came to vampires. Harkon's glare was open and hostile and the attitude instantly shifted. Her welcome was quickly become worn, the dogs that patrolled the open hall growling as they sensed their master's displeasure.  
“Who are you filth?” he snarled.  
“I am Hekth,” she replied at last. “Surely, you have heard of me?”  
The look in his eyes, the instant transformation, betrayed him. His rage chilled by recognition.  
“He is no longer yours,” were the next words to spew from his lips.  
“He will always be mine,” Hekth retorted, smiling ever so slightly. “As a vampire, I'm sure even you can appreciate the sanctity of blood.”  
Harkon did not respond. But his court certainly did. They did not warm to her. But there was a certain interest implied as they eased into an audience rather than an army. Hekth observed this, ignoring for those few seconds the deafening silence. And then, once she'd had her fill, she returned her attention to Harkon.  
“He looks like his father, you know?” she asked, really rubbing it in.  
She struggled really. Reached deep into her mind and memories of the monster locked away in her chambers. She could not see within him any remnants to love. Was she really so removed from vampires to not admire the savagery?  
“Well, looked.”  
The lie was easy to deliver. Possibly the easiest sentence to pass her lips since she had been freed from her Tong imposter captors. And Harkon believed her, rising from his throne, the air around him a mix of rage and pain. And it hurt her to think this monster could so greatly mourn her son's loss when she herself couldn't even muster up more than personal shame, that this was where she'd pointed her son in simply having him. Hurt she let show, hoping it was enough to trick him.  
“You come here then to mock me?” Harkon demanded.  
“I came to inform you,” she replied. “I was there at Windhelm. I heard what they called him.”  
“And what did they call him?” Harkon asked.  
Murderer. Monster. She couldn't decide which to define him as yet. But she knew Harkon would not agree with either. She looked him in the eye.  
“They called him...Harkon's son.”

 

Miraak smirked, hearing the result of requesting Falin be a distraction, the sounds of very obvious pleasure and ultimately the bride to be's disgust as they were discovered. A time old scandal, though one he'd associate more with Dunmer rather than either Imperial or Bosmer.  
“She has a distinct talent for chaos,” he remarked to Serana.  
“That's one way to put it,” Serana retorted.  
But her lips were upturned, a clear sign she was amused. For a moment, at least. Her gaze flickered to Lilith. The elf had merged flawlessly back into socializing, whatever she was saying capable of wooing the other guests from flocking to Falin's scandalous display. It spoke of her skill that she was able to enrapture when she was clearly in turmoil, the events surrounding her astral journey no doubt troubling. Serana turned to Miraak, her intent she wasn't quite sure. There was little they could do, their knowledge of the situation as limited as it was. Not for the first time, she was rather aimless. Except, just beyond her Nord companion, she could see the tell tale signs of a specter, the blue eyes directly pointed at her. The blood bond may have faded but Serana would recognize the same halfling that had awakened her as well as she recognized herself. She made to approach, probably to confront the vanishing Dragonborn about her absence, especially in such a time of crisis. Clearly recognizing that she had been seen, Syra pushed away from the wall, her spectral form fading away.  
“Did you see that?” she asked Miraak.  
“See what?” he inquired, his question an answer.  
Serana shook her head, not wanting to stir up hope where there was none. She shook her head.  
“I must be hungry,” she lied. “I swear I saw this atrocious hat.”  
“You wouldn't be wrong,” laughed Miraak.  
He made a face, pointedly directing it across the room and Serana laughed. She shook her head at him but moved on, trailing Lilith who had extracted herself from her followers, sweeping a clear path out of the room. Distress wrinkled her brow now but she hid it well besides that, settling into an intimate circle of chairs. Miraak and Serana were quick to join her.  
“You left your admirers,” Serana observed.  
“My news is more pressing,” Lilith replied.  
Despite her tone which was rather dire, her face remained open and cheerful. A perfect mask.  
“Amarenthine has an ally. He once worked for my father. His knowledge is astoundingly vast,” she explained. “And I felt her. Felt my sister's presence there. She forced us out. I'm sure of it.”  
Her brow began to dip a bit but, remembering where she was, she quickly raised it, looking as chipper as ever. Serana leaned forward.  
“Your sister is no god,” she said. “How would she be able to manipulate the realm like that?”  
“Amarenthine is the original Order crystal,” Miraak mused. “And the Shivering Isles were built on Order. Perhaps there is still some draw there.”  
“Daedric and Divine power relies on will and whim,” Lilith clarified.  
She smiled, sending a polite wave across the room at some noble that happened to capture her attention.  
“Whenever Amarenthine is involved, Sheogorath is weakened,” she continued through gritted teeth, maintaining that dazzling smile. “He does not wish harm to her.”  
“Because he still loves her,” Miraak said.  
“Its probably why Darrus has managed to hold on for so long,” Lilith mused.  
The conversation wrapped up with the approach of the waving noble, Lilith rising from her chair making Serana lean back, carefully crossing her legs. Her eyes followed the elven mage as she headed off to mingle again.  
“Love can't possibly be it,” she declared. “Amarenthine must have something that dampens his power or-”  
“Love is a very debilitating emotion.”  
Miraak's voice was soft, his gaze on her, his mismatched eyes thoughtful.  
“Pride, hatred, guilt and fear as well, in case you wished to know. The bonds we form with others, they can strengthen us or destroy us,” he continued. “I loved Nithrogr for centuries. And in that love, I found pride. Pride in my duty to her and that pride led, inevitably, to my fall.”  
He smiled a bit, the expression somewhat sarcastic.  
“Between us, I use to be terrified of the dark. After so long in Apocrypha, I find myself rather unnerved in the light.”  
“How ironic,” Serana remarked. “But you're not weak.”  
Miraak's smile turned rather mischievious, his eyes flashing with amusement.  
“I do so enjoy that my areas in which I am lacking have not been revealed to you. I rather enjoy being held in some esteem in your eyes.”  
Serana snorted.  
“I was taught to both respect my elders and to look to them for wisdom,” she said. “And who here is older than you?”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bishop, first and foremost, is the property of Mara/The Skyrim Romance Mod AND Bioware.

_He found peace in silence. A rare thing indeed, if he was to be honest, staring at Falin's sleeping form beside him. She was at peace, her arm thrown out over his waist. He wanted to grin at that and at the way her wild mane of hair had practically smothered him when he'd awoken. He should've stayed at the party, scoped out his target and then gone back to the inn like a good little assassin. But Falin had been too tempting and once he'd gotten a taste, he couldn't stop. Reaching out, he brushed aside a stray strand of her hair, to get a better view of her face. It was enough and he saw her eyes flickered open. For a second he was concerned he'd done something wrong as she pushed herself up a bit, rubbing her eyes which were filled with confusion._   
_“You're still here?” she observed, blinking the sleep from her eyes._   
_“Why wouldn't I be?” he inquired, testing the boundaries._   
_He touched her face, trailing his fingers along her cheek as he brushed more hair from her face. She shrugged, subtly leaning into his touch a bit._   
_“I've gone to bed with many people,” Falin said. “Very rarely do I wake up with them.”_   
_“Then they are fools,” he declared as if it was fact as opposed to personal opinion._   
_He was not good with words, excelling more at action. And so he leaned forward, pressing their lips together, relishing the feel, the taste and the blooming of warmth in his chest. Amongst that warmth, however, there was a deep pain._   
_“I'm an assassin,” he wished to say. “I am the maddest of men.”_   
_Which would've scared her more, he wondered. She claimed madness, to know it and surely she showed it well. But his was much darker than hers. It was suffocating and soul clenching, the words he'd written to fill his journals echoing in the corners of his mind, drowned out by the sound of the jester's laughter. Letting her go? It was near akin to death for him. He pulled her towards him, relishing the natural way she eased against him, laying across his chest._   
_“Vittoria's wedding is in 3 days,” Falin grumbled. “Kill me.”_   
_“You don't have a taste for parties?”_   
_“I don't have a taste for grand standing, pompous asses and arranged marriages,” she retorted. “I am also very concerned for a couple of my friends. Nothing would make me happier than to leave Solitude. I have more important matters to attend.”_   
_“Like what?” Cicero inquired._   
_He wasn't particularly listening, distracted by her hair as he allowed the crimson tresses to slip through his fingers. Her silence gave him pause as he realized it was rather drawn out. Opening his mouth, he meant to ask her why. But she beat him to it._   
_“My grandfather is the Emperor,” she admitted._   
_She lifted her chin, angling those shining eyes his way._   
_“And the Dark Brotherhood has a contract out on him.”_   
_His mouth was suddenly dry. No, no. This wasn't happening. He was mishearing._   
_“I'm going to stop them,” Falin declared. “No matter what happens. I will stop them.”_   
_“Stop!” he yelled then._   
_He couldn't escape, not really. Instead, he threw his hands over his eyes, as if not seeing the world around him would make it not real. Perhaps he should cover his ears, so as not to hear the words she spoke, words he should have gutted her for. If the Night Mother ever spoke to him, despite it not being his place, her words would be sickeningly sweet, dripping with a poison that he'd want to ingest. They'd quiet the whispers in his head, banishing the accursed jester and the ghost of who he once was. And they'd tell him to kill Falin. Be his method ripping out her heart or driving a dagger through it. Knowing what needed to be done did not spur him to action. Rather, he found himself uncoiling, using his arms to gather the woman who should've been his victim and pulling her into a desperate embrace. If he held her, she was real and present. He could pretend that his life as an assassin, his years of lonely silence and hushed laughter that had steadily grown louder and louder had never happened. If only he siezed this new reality._

  
“Cicero, there you are!”  
Babette was skilled. She still had her role as a meek child in place, scolding him as his elder only when they happened to be free of prying eyes. She was reasonably grumpy. Cicero had avoided being alone with her as often as possible, sticking close to Falin, milking the madness she spewed his way, the impish pranks and scandals she liked stirring up. The sex wasn't bad either, if he was being honest. But as with everything, all good things had to come to an end.   
“The wedding is today!” Babette hissed angrily.  
She waved a stack of letters at him, no doubt a mix of furious correspondence between Babette and the Listener.  She threw the stack into his arms and he found he had been wrong, half the pages marked by Nazir's neat scrawl.  He barely spared them a glance, folding them neatly and pocketing them, trying to disregard the Black Hand on them. Choosing Falin, over and over again, as he had, he'd betrayed his role as Keeper. Further evidence he was not meant to be in the field. A Keeper was meant only to tend the Night Mother. He had overstepped and was paying the consequences for it.  
“These too!” Babette said, shoving daggers his way.  
The daggers he'd put away when his role as an active assassin had ended. They'd served him well, smaller than an iron dagger and much easier to conceal. He'd excitedly freed them from their storage and had equipped them on his person for travel. Now, he reluctantly did so, an easy task with the finery he wore. It hung loose on his form, leaving ample room for weapons.   
“The others are in place,” Babette whispered to him.  
Ah good. Now they were being joined by servants scrambling to put together last minute preparations for Vittoria's vanity project, as Falin referred to it. Cicero could see where she got that idea, the set up excess, even for a noble. After all, it wasn't as if it was an Emperor's coronation. He began walking with Babette, the two looking innocent enough in their companionship.  
“We should try not to be seen however,” the small vampire continued. “I have a feeling they know about us.”  
“Oh?” Cicero murmured, mind flashing to Falin.  
They'd been alone in her cabin with no chance to be eavesdropped on.No way could Babette know about her.   
“Nazir says that Astrid may have been spotted a few months prior. On the docks,” Babette reported.  
She smirked darkly.  
“And that our darling Gabrielle may be in cahoots with the Thalmor. No doubt selling out any of our contacts not wise enough to go underground.”  
“And they call me a fool,” Cicero chuckled.   
His smile quickly fell away, replaced with concern. Wasn't that mad? His identity could very easily be compromised and he was more concerned with a woman he'd met only days ago. If things went astray, would she be safe. He could only hope.  
  
  
“My my, Bishop. Did you clean under your fingernails,” she observed teasingly.   
She squeezed his arm, stopping him from pulling away from her. He was her escort after all. Pointedly, she focused on the scrounged up tunic Bishop had acquired, pretending to be fascinated with it. It was an effective distraction from the disgruntled nobles she'd terrorized the past three days who glowered at her. Or else it was guilt through association of being related to Vittoria. Many, it seemed, were not happy with having to do something so undignified as walking. The shame! Falin found it rather pleasant. Walking helped cure her off the excess energy. Thaille had yet to be accounted for, though she suspected he was off licking his wounds. There was a frustrated air about the Thalmor agents in attendance. Which was almost a confirmation that Zadara had not been caught. It did not sit well with her that she had failed her friend, with Thaille apparently picking up her slack. Her mind and sense of priority were being pulled in different directions. Ashanti was first and foremost. Her poor companion had lived a rather pampered life, unlike Falin herself. While Ashanti was formidable, she was not wild entirely. Falin worried the sweet lioness would be driven feral if she spent much longer in the grasp of her captors. Hence why she'd sent letter after letter through various means to Riften to somehow implore the Jarl to action. By bird, courier, traveling merchant or bard and even the carriageman, though that had cost a pretty penny. It had been the only other activity that had filled the three days while she waited for Vittoria to be married. The other activity had been Cicero.  
“Your cousin is glaring,” Bishop reported.  
Falin blinked, pulled out of her recollection by his words. She carefully avoided acknowledging Vittoria's glare, smirking ever so slightly to herself.   
“No doubt her guests have complained about my antics,” she chuckled.   
She gave his arm a squeeze.  
“Which you woud know about had you not made yourself so scarce,” Falin declared. “Where were you?”  
“Hunting,” Bishop replied. “I tried the tavern but you can't go anywhere in this town without someone trying to make small talk.”  
He sunk into a grouchy mood, as if he hated the mere idea of people. Which, for all Falin knew of him, he did.  
“I've found the best cure for small talk is to greatly disturb them,” Falin announced.  
“It doesn't always come so naturally. Especially not for us peasants.”  
“Ah, a shot at my lineage!” Falin marveled. “I was waiting for one with actual malice and not sarcasm.”  
She bumped his shoulder with her head.  
“The upper crust aren't so forgiving of bastards nor their offspring, no matter how respectable they make themselves,” she reminded him. “And they have little control of their tongues, even for the broken or abused in their ranks.”  
“Translation: shut it,” Bishop summed up.  
“You learn so fast,” Falin praised.   
They had neared the temple, passing beneath the drop gate, only to be welcomed by a courtyard decorated with silk ribbons and drapes.  
“Oh what fresh hell is this?” Bishop said beneath his breath.  
He tensed, first instinct to flee, held in place only by Falin's grip on his arm.  
“Oh no. You are not leaving me here!” she whispered to him.  
“This is your family!” he insisted.   
“Not by choice!” Falin retorted, practically dragging him further into the courtyard and steering him closer to the chairs set up.   
Their was a nearly full gallery of nobles staring them down, none of which wanted Falin near them. She happily obliged, steering Bishop to a front row seat, fluffing the skirt of her scarlet dress so that it fanned around her, a bright red beacon for Vittoria to see.  
“I can feel them glaring at us,” Bishop grouched.  
“Me,” Falin corrected.  
“You did make yourself a rather effective nuisance.”  
This from Miraak, joining them, setting beside Falin. Serana and Lilith were with him, taking seats as well.   
“Its more a pleasure than a chore,” Falin confessed with a shrug. “Can't have them liking me too much now. They may start wandering to my door.”  
She leaned around the bulky Nord, looking at Lilith.  
“How were your visitors, Arch Mage? Numerous, no doubt?”  
“Is it not common knowledge that love potions don't exist?” Lilith griped.  
“Oh but aphrodisiacs do,” Falin chirped happily.  
She smiled.  
“Thank the gods for them.”   
“Don't,” Bishop warded off, stopping any of the three from asking any questions though it was unlikely they would need to.  
Falin rolled her eyes at his efforts and returned her attention to Miraak, studying him with interest.  
“Something you like?” he inquired.   
“Very much so,” she confessed. “If not for a few factors, I would most definently climb you like the tree you are.”  
“Factors? Ah so more than one,” Miraak observed.  
“Yes indeed. You,” Falin explained, pointing to him.  
Her finger next traveled to Serana.  
“And her.”  
Falin shrugged, ignoring the shocked expressions that decorated their faces.  
“Shame. I'd sleep with both of you.”  
Realization hit her and she turned back to them both, looked excited.  
“Oh, can we all sleep together?” she asked.  
She gasped loudly, something done on purpose.  
“It has been far too long since I had an orgy!” she gushed.  
She turned around, facing the guests.  
“Orgy with the Arch Mage!” she proclaimed. “Who's in?”  
Her announcement was followed by Bishop siezing her and slamming her rear down in her chair.  
“That is quite enough out of you,” he hissed as Falin laughed evilly.  
Her need for antics expended for the moment, she settled back, enjoying the wide blue sky above them, barely listening to Miraak, Serana and Lilith as they struck up a hushed conversation. Her lack of focus is precisely what allowed her to see the little blur of motion along the battlements. Her gaze narrowed to better focus, realizing the blur was the top of a head. She was instantly on edge, tilting her head slightly. Did she raise alarm? Or simply wait and see what happened? Would anyone even respond to her yelling a warning? Probably not. Choosing a more direct route, she rose, only for Bishop to grab the back of her dress, bringing her rear back to her chair.  
“Please, PLEASE, behave,” he lowly growled, drawing her attention to the fact that the ceremony was beginning.   
Falin sat, unwilling, looking upwards for the blur, realizing that it had disappeared. She angled her head, trying to get a better glimpse but realizing that wouldn't be happening from where she sat. Fighting the urge to groan loudly in frustration, she settled in, growing more and more unnerved as if there was some lingering cloud over her.   
“Somethings wrong,” she whispered to herself.   
As if just saying it would somehow alert the others to what she felt. Miraak acknowledged her, glancing at her, realizing she was serious. He looked around but missed the obvious. Missed the battlements. Ahead of them, the couples were exchanging their vows, really tying themselves together. If something was to happen to ruin the wedding or even to stop it, it had come too late. They were wed. Falin should've relaxed. The drop gate was down and secure, Penitus Oculatus in attendance even if the Emperor himself wasn't. She should've felt secure but an unaccounted blur on the battlements had ruined her enjoyment of the wedding. If any was to be had. The more time passed with nothing happening, the tenser she got, her paranoia mounting slightly. Rarely were her feelings off and so she trusted her instincts completely. As did Miraak apparently, who had followed her gaze which was once more brought to the battlements.  
“They're on the balconey,” he reported, able to split his attention between their surroundings and the ceremony.   
Falin was not, her gaze zooming in on the gargoyle. The off center stone monstrosity that dangled over said balconey. Every instinct in her was on fire and she was already in motion before the gargoyle shook,  breaking away and plumetting onto the newly married bride and groom. Her magic was a surge, knocking aside chairs around her, people included. Despite the collateral damage, she heard the sound, before she snapped back to awareness, of the gargoyle hitting the cobblestone ground, the newlyweds unharmed but frightened on their balconey. Falin lifted her head towards them, relieved despite her dislike of Vittoria. It was when she spotted the small child that she was struck rather dumb for the briefest second. That second counted as she got to witness firsthand the delicate arrow pierce through the air, lodging itself in Vittoria's throat, the bride knocked back and disappearing from view as sheer chaos errupted. Nobles and servants alike panicked around her, running from their respective positions. In some far away place, Falin could hear Bishop calling her name, probably knocked aside with the rest when she'd diverted the gargoyle. She didn't bother looking for him. That arrow came from somewhere and her green eyes scanned her surroundings, traveling upwards. An archer herself, she knew well how to trace a shot. And sure enough, positioned above the rest was...Cicero. Her mouth when dry, taking in the jester outfit, weaved of red and black fabric. The bow in his hand was rather indicative as well. Her rage was immediate, swallowing whatever hurt she may have felt before it had time to affect her. She moved then, dodging bodies and upturned chairs as she charged, under Cicero's watchful gaze. He didn't even try to move, not even as she launched herself upwards with her magic, practically tackling him as she landed.  
“You,” she growled, lunging at him, her feet barely on the ground beneath them.  
Cicero was slippery, dodging her physical attack. He did not account for the magic leaking from her, probably didn't sense it. Oh but he felt it when it focused and hit him head on, driven by her rage. He flew back, stunned, hitting the wall, the bow falling from his hand. And Falin allowed the bombardment to continue, bending down to pick up the bow.   
“You're an assassin,” she accused.  
He was struggling, a faint wheeze sounding from him as he squirmed beneath her magic's grip. How many times had she seen that? Seen someone trying to escape being crushed to death by an unseen force? How much fear had she created of men who probably never felt such a thing before?   
“A member of the Dark Brotherhood,” Falin continued, flashing back to their conversation as she stared at his pinned form.  
The same hands that only earlier had traced their way along her spine had taken Vittoria's life with such ease. He had known her whole reason for being in Skyrim and yet, he was one of them. One of the people that would be going after her grandfather. He was trying to say something, his lips struggling to form words, trying to say something to convince her not to kill him, no doubt. Her own lips curved slightly, her madness oozing into the expression.   
“I'm going to tear you apart,” she declared, meaning her words, already imagining the blood at her feet as his limbs were wretched from his body.   
A goal that would not come to fruition, the sharp feel of a dagger slipping past her defenses and into her side. The result was instant, her body locking up on her and the magic that had so easily leapt to her call vanishing like whisps of smoke in the wind. She hit the ground, only able to watch helplessly as Cicero was freed from her grip.  
“Cicero! Move!” a young girl's voice called.   
And indeed, Cicero moved, only somewhat shaky now that he was free. She saw his eyes shoot to her, his escape paused as if he meant to check on her.   
“I'm going to kill you,” Falin wanted to snarl, her mouth unable to move much like the rest of her entire body.  
All she could do was glare, watching helplessly and motionless as he got away.


	23. Chapter 23

Widespread was the news and why would it not be. The Emperor's cousin, slain, and on her wedding day as the bride addressed her guests. Those of morbid sense laughed it off. Vittoria had thrown and enjoyed one last party and in the end had managed to eclipse any potential scandals that may have otherwise been the talk of the season otherwise. A sense of humor could not, however, dismiss the unease as on the tale end of her death came news of another death. That of Gaius Maro. His killer was unknown but had revealed a very important fact and that was that he had been instrumental in Vittoria's death and in the rebellion, a fact that had slipped past every gag order his father had attempted to implicate, spreading through the ranks of his men, the Solitude guard and then far beyond Skyrim's capital city as nobles traveled home. In only the span of a week, it had become well known that Gaius Maro had betrayed his Emperor and his father. Their plans should have been falling into place and yet, there were complications. Babette grinded the herbs together rather savagely, frustrated no doubt. She did not like her skills as an alchemist called in question, even if no one had been dumb enough to insinuate that they weren't up to snuff. But the fact that the Keeper remained bedridden was a glaring smear on her otherwise flawless record. Nazir sat beside at the Keeper's bedside, having nothing better to do but wait for initiates to return. Or not return as could very well be the case. Did he enjoy watching the creepy little jester? Not in the slightest. But his alternatives involved an angry child vampire and a ranting and raving old wizard. At least the Keeper was asleep, albeit fitfully, grimacing ever so slightly if he moved wrong while asleep. And he'd been asleep a good while, ever since he'd collapsed on the boat ride back from Solitude and Babette had dragged him home. Somehow, without his creepy singing to disturb it, the silence echoed louder. It was like Nazir was ultra aware that there was an enemy in their midst, restraints be damned. You didn't cage another vampire, even if your yourself were one. He'd planned to have words with Hekth when she returned. If she returned. A letter had made its way to him, courtesy of Brynjolf down in Riften, explaining that their fearless leader had trekked off for places unknown with no set time as to when she would return. Which meant he was in charge, no matter how much Festus threw his age into the argument. Nazir handled most of the contracts and that was that. On that thought, Nazir rose, one eye on the sleeping jester just in case this was some long con, leaving the room to shuffle across the distance from the room to the common area. The sickeningly sweet smell of Babette's latest line of poison hung in the hair, thickening the closer he got. As she had been for hours, she was still bent over her alchemy table, mumbling to herself, displeased no doubt that she had to make poisons when she had made it her personal mission to get Cicero back on his feet. Nazir knew better to steer clear, approaching instead what he had dubbed his work station. In actuality it was merely the table of the common area where they ate and some of his contracts were sporting wine droplets and smears of food. He cast a slight glare over his shoulder at Arnbjorn who feigned innocence, observing the dagger he had busily been crafting, knowing full well the werewolf ate more like a pig.  
“Maybe next time, a napkin?” Nazir suggested, sure to keep his tone light despite how annoyed he found himself.  
Arnbjorn's response was a derisive snort.  
“The jester still down?” he asked, changing the subject.  
“Do you hear him?” Nazir retorted.  
The werewolf got up, joining him at the table, stabbing the sharp blade into the wood before heaving his body down into the chair one over and across from the redguard.Nazir studiously avoided the wolf's gaze, his eyes going over his contracts but his mind on the three initiates. They were...mildly competent at least, the definite star the welp that Hekth had toted around. Her story was a mystery, of course, and she spent so little time in the Sanctuary, either out on contracts or living in Dawnstar as an early warning system in case trouble should come knocking.  
“Any word on Astrid?” Arnbjorn asked.  
His voice was forcibly gruff, as if he was trying to avoid revealing just how talking about his wife made him feel. Nazir couldn't blame him for that.  
“Why would I know that?” he asked, playing dumb.  
Yeah, he had eyes and ears almost everywhere. They couldn't afford to be cut off from the network he'd connected them to. It was why he was certain Astrid was still in Skyrim. She'd escaped with very few supplies and equally as little cash. Undoubtedly she was rusty when it came to a blade. With limited resources, she'd either have to trade herself for passage out, something she would never do, or else use her little coin to start over in the last place anyone would look. Why it was taking so long? He couldn't guess. The point being, however, is that he had the means to know something about Astrid's location. Those means just hadn't provided any leads past Gabrielle's apparent alliance with the Thalmor.  
“You make it a point to know everything,” Arnbjorn said.  
“Yes, well, Astrid and Gabrielle haven't exactly been the Listener's priority,” Nazir reminded him.  
“No her priorities all seem to revolve around the vampire she keeps locked in her room,” Arnbjorn snapped. “Meanwhile, my wife-”  
“Your wife,” Nazir interrupted sternly. “Betrayed us. Didn't have the decency even to ask if we wanted to serve a dragon that was bent on destroying everything. So excuse me if I'm not exactly shedding a tear over her disappearance.”  
He sat back a bit, casting a thumb in the general direction of Hekth's room.  
“She's been pretty up front with us about her prisoner,” he said. “Even said that she wouldn't lock him up here if we didn't feel comfortable. So maybe we don't start comparing the new and old regime, hm?”  
The werewolf glared at him but there was no argument he could make, instead standing up and huffing away. Nazir watched him go, catching Babette's eye when he did so as she too watched the retreating wolf, a sense of unease shared between them.

 

How many times had she heard it? That turmoil was necessary. The the state of the world had to change from time to time in order to progress. Chaos was natural and needed, which had been the reason that she hadn't been instructed or urged to stop the Mythic Dawn in their early days but rather to allow them to proceed as they were. It had been a lesson, which the divine and daedric princes were fond of giving, even to each other. A way of keeping everyone in check. Which was important. So while she was not happy to know assassins personally, she had to admire Hekth at least. Her brotherhood had made a right mess of the nobility and Solitude. Before Vittoria had fallen from her new husband's side to the cobblestone courtyard below, a plot had been put in place to blind the nobility, a scapegoat killed and framed rather efficiently and an escape route secured for those involved. She easily could have stopped Cicero and Babette, even if Falin had not bee a priority, but Lilith had seen the halfling fall and had launched into action then. And for awhile, things had been okay. In dark times, people turned to their leaders, even if they didn't fully trust their positions or stances. As a mage and a high elf she should've been the last person anyone trusted nowadays and yet, she had noticed a special kind of panic when she had announced she would be leaving again, returning to the mysterious assignment that had kept her from her post and her mages for months. There had been many who approached her in the three nights she'd chosen to remain at the Blue Palace, seeking a hint to where she would be. When all else failed, magic could surely keep them safe. On that note, Lilith sat back, sighing heavily. She had failed, really. Failed to get ahead of Amarenthine and to maintain the tentative peace that had fallen since the Dragon Crisis had ended. Yes, the people of Skyrim could rest easy knowing they no longer had to worry about a large reptile swooping down and tearing apart the life they had built. If they could ignore the fact that assassins had infiltrated the wealthiest of them and so publicly too.  
“I suspect letters will arrive in more abundant numbers,” Serana said, the comment meant to be offhanded.  
The vampire was sitting in the middle row of the tiny row boat, giving Lilith abundant room as she pointedly angled herself more towards Miraak who hadn't said a word, focusing his energy on rowing. Lilith leaned forward a bit, chosing to ignore Serana for the moment.  
“Miraak, have you any interest in Falin?” she inquired, her question causing him to stop rowing, one eyebrow raising in obvious confusion.  
“Dare I ask why you've chosen this line of questioning? Above all the other things we have come to learn during this adventure?” he retorted rather dryly.  
“She is the granddaughter of the Emperor,” Lilith replied. “Perhaps I am interested in seeing if you intend to abuse that particular perk to her.”  
Miraak snorted.  
“She seems to have a startling grasp of morality,” he said. “Right and wrong are rather defined in her mind. If she truly knew me, there is little doubt I would continue to appeal to her.”  
“That doesn't answer my question,” Lilith grumped.  
“Perhaps I will answer yours when you answer me this. We know now that Amarenthine has a Scroll. She also has allies still. So what is our next plan?”  
“I truthfully hadn't thought about that,” Lilith replied.  
She cast her eyes to the sea all around them.  
“We have to find the other scrolls,” she decided aloud.  
“My father is looking for those scrolls,” Serana objected. “It would be crazy to bring them together! And in his castle? You're insane!”  
“Although with Amarenthine possessing a scroll, he'd only have two out of three,” Miraak pointed out.  
“And I wouldn't bring them back to the castle,” Lilith assured her.  
Said castle loomed in the distance, looking desolete in the morning sun. She had learned well that the others would have little interest in her comings and goings and thus would not be looking out the window. Even still, she was grateful that Miraak had angled them to go around the island, heading instead for the ruinous structures behind it.  
“Our time here is coming to an end,” Lilith announced. “We've found nothing here save her journal. And we can take that with us. But we must obtain the other Scrolls.”  
Serana made a face but her gaze went to the castle as well. Lilith felt for her. She spent so much time alive, losing people and places that had once been familiar to her. So many ruins today had once been a place she had seen in its glory, its people recognizing her interest in neutrality and welcoming her forth. She had seldom appreciated it then, maintaining a cold distance from everything and everyone. It had made her and Darrus's sister, Sifth, birds of a feather. If you did not attach yourself to mortal or finite things, it did not hurt when you lost them. Lilith could not quite recall when that had changed for her. Perhaps at Sifth's side, watching as the woman who had shared the Hero of Kvatch title with her twin brother had finally slipped away from the mortal coil, hopefully to reunite with Martin Septim, the only man she'd ever loved. She could not be sure because so many events had transpired in two centuries to stir the humanity in her. Either way, watching Serana stare at a place that had transformed from a home into a shadow of its former glory, she empathized. Home was a place not so easy to find. And even harder to keep.  
“We have to find my mother,” Serana declared.  
Her usual mask of indifference was slipping back into place but there was an anxiety to her.  
“She locked me away with the Scroll Dyre stole from me. But she had one of her own. One she kept with her.”  
“Then we have no choice,” Lilith agreed. “We have to find her.”

 

The rest of the boat ride had been uneventful and silent, no plans made but a firm understanding obtained that they had to figure out where to go that Harkon could not reach. Serana felt an overwhelming sadness, a familiar emotion really. Even Miraak's presence and the subtle way he sought to comfort her did not soothe it. It was like a bug, burrowing beneath her skin where she could not reach it. Leaving home before, having a vague idea that she was to be sealed away alone in order to prevent her father from obtaining the Elder Scroll and the prophecy had hurt. Of course, so had the fact that home had quickly transformed into a suffocating stage where she had to hide how she felt, pretend as though she wasn't driven mad at the silent rage and hate her parents threw at each other, their silence much worse than the words they could have and should have said. Yet all of this was familiar. The gargoyles frozen in stone, ready and waiting for enemy invaders, the long walk up to the castle gates and even the gate itself where as a child she had hung like some sort of animal, enjoying the blood rushing to her head. It was home, at least the only home she had ever known. Beside her, she could see Lilith taking in the imposing castle and couldn't help but wonder what it was that was going through the elven woman's head. No doubt the mess they had left behind in Solitude was weighing on her. She had to admit she was worried too and had to wonder if perhaps her blood bond with Syra wasn't entirely gone. It would explain seeing the elf halfling at Vittoria's party when the woman had effectively vanished, taking the dragons with her. Or else she was hallucinating, though the odds of that were slim. The sound of the gate rising caught her attention as the heavy iron gate had been opened when they had left. Unless something had happened. She didn't question it too much, tensing ever so slightly when the heavy doors creaked open, welcoming them back into the dark embrace of the castle. As always, her eyes had to adjust a bit, the transition from blinding and discomforting sunlight to the cool darkness of the castle taking a few moments. However, the change occurred fast enough that she stopped short, as well as Lilith, as they beheld their welcoming party in the antechamber, a familiar smile playing on those full lips.She only recognized it from memories that had filled her head in a rush but they still stirred a feeling of warmth and safety in her which greatly contrasted the mix of fear and alertness she came to associate with her father's court.  
“Archmage, Serana,” Hekth purred. “You're late.”

 

Coldharbour. It always reminded her of sorrow. In fact, it practically choked her as she stepped in. Truly, those unlucky enough to inhabit it had given up, submitted, any hopes of escape lost as they realized that what their master craved was their submission. Once, she never would have stepped foot within it. She feared many of her father's counterparts and not because they had torn him asunder but because she recognized that in their own right, and especially in their own realms, they were unquestionably powerful. Now, she felt none of the youthful fear that had once chilled her. No, instead she was confident that what she had to offer would keep her safe. Even if her own power would falter in the face of a daedric prince, her words would not. Of course, it was all made easier by knowing what one unquestionably desired. Her footsteps stirred up whispers of dust which swirled around her. Had she not expected it, the profound sense of helplessness and the panic at the thought of being so weak, would have alarmed her more. She had noticed a decrease in the sludge and knew that Molag Bal had made it specially for her. Or at least rolled it out. He was hitting her where it hurt, the sorrow she felt reminicent of her past hurt. Of course, he seemed to have forgotten that those events had shaped her, forging her into an instrument of vengence, rather than a crying mess. As such, she knew well the result Molag Bal wished to see come from his little game. And he would be sorely disappointed. After so often seeing the results of his games gone wrong, she was prepared for all his tricks. As if realizing that fact, she saw the hints of the landscape before her changing and she braced herself, managing to not jump when the ground shook, cracking apart violently, torn from within to release the Prince of Domination himself. Molag Bal in all his glory was a sight to behold. A form that resembled both an oxen and a dragon or perhaps a lizard was his chosen form. His head was adorned with horns that were terrifying enough. The rest of his adornments, the claws, fangs and the dangerous looking tail, were purely overkill. Yet even still, it was intimidating and she would have cowered in her youth, curling at his feet in the hopes that he wouldn't harm her. Now, well, now she knew better, hiding the fear she felt behind a bored gaze that she turned on him, secure in what she had brought to bargain.  
“Molag Bal, Lord of Coldharbour,” she greeted him, a bow already in place. “I've come to bargain.”

 

She only had the word of a few merchants and a passing bard to rely on. While she'd never presume to know more about people who'd spent much of their time traveling Skyrim, she was worried as to the reliability of the information. Nevertheless, she had followed it and it had not failed her, her path leading her to the den or pit or whatever it presented itself as. Certainly, the guards at the door had been ready to defend it and she had given them only a hair's breath to rethink their decision. Before she'd cut them down, of course. Not exactly what she'd been planning after just barely escaping recapture and possibly death. But sitting idle, pretending she was some innocent maiden had gotten old mere hours into her arrival in Windhelm. She was a warrior and damn well she would be, hoisting the steel sword she'd acquired onto her shoulder, plunging further into the underground pit. She had formed some idea of what it would look like, not at all surprised at the sheer amount of gamblers. Her brown eyes did a quick scan, taking in the threats that awaited her, angling the shield in her opposite hand just enough to ward off a well aimed arrow before it pierced her mid section. She dodged the next two, ducking behind barrels, hearing the thunk! as the next few shots hit the wood. Her mouth stretched into a quick grin as she popped back up, shield first, feeling the shockwave as a greatsword hit it. And yet she remained solid. It felt good. All of it. Heading into a fight and choosing to do so rather than running, using skills she'd trained in extensively as soon as she could hold a sword and it was determined she had little patience for the intricacies of magic. Confidence had returned to her, probably as a result of having to strike out on her own and rely solely on herself. She'd made her choice rather quickly and now, well, now she slammed her sword hilt into her orc opponent's jaw, feeling the bone crunch with the force. There was chaos, innocent patrons of the ring fleeing as they realized she was an intruder and was deadly serious about hurting them. The archer was a real problem. While he didn't have deadly accuracy, especially not with her hugging the shadows, ducking behind rocks, more barrels and the occassional chest, he was something of a problem. She had to keep him in her line of sight, fending off more muscle who hadn't seen much fighting past drunken patrons. But in numbers, as they swarmed her, their bulk was a force to be reckoned with. Ducking low, she lashed out, slicing at knees, angling her shield up as an axe came down, the cheap weapon bouncing off her shield at a weird angle as its weilder fell to the ground. She pinned and disarmed him, an easy feet as he loudly lamented the gushing wood of his knee. She traded out her sword for the axe, surprised at its weight, but threw it, nonetheless, at the archer. He didn't see it at first, only realizing something was flying through the dim lights when it happened to pass through a sliver of light. He dodged, throwing himself back to avoid being hit, falling into the pit. The wolves there, bred to tear each other apart, instantly turned on him, leaping onto him hungrily, fighting each other with blood stained muzzles for the meal. Zadara darted forward, leaping atop the thrown together ring, mindful of the feasting dogs. The remaining pit guards looked less sure of themselves yet continued to close in. And Zadara grinned their way, letting them puzzle over it as she slashed the ropes tying the opposite side of the small ring together. The weaker of the two wolves fled first, its scrawny body still fast and with enough muscle to launch itself at scurrying patrons. As their gold kept the pit open, the guards instantly hurried to their defense, yelling ensuing. Zadara, meanwhile, leapt into the pit, following the narrow dirt entrance, ducking low enough to realize the sand below was stained with blood, some fresh and still red while others were black. She paid them little mind, emerging into more chaos as a room of caged animals exploded into a flurry of noise, announcing her presence.She had little time to get her bearings, a khajiit male instantly launching himself at her. He moved like water, comfortable in his own skin, sharp claws raining down on her as she backtracked, making an attempt for distance but to no avail. Sharp claws sliced through skin, beads of blood blossoming on her upper thigh where the khajiit had bypassed both armor and shield. He was trying to undermine her footing. Smart plan but she guessed it far too easily, throwing herself forward on his next attack, rolling out of reach and back to her feet. She gave her sword a quick spin, reaffirming her hold on it. On the next swipe, she was ready, choosing to block with the sword, the blunt side, to confuse her attacker. And when she registered the confusion in his eyes, she swept his legs out from under him, bringing her shield up at the same time and smashing it into his head. As he hit the ground, unconscious, she fell back, the leg sweep costing her. Worth it, or so she thought as a war hammer filled her vision, moving fast. She threw up her shield again and pain exploded in her arm, the wooden shield exploding in wood splinters. Zadara cried out but knew better than to just lay there and take whatever was coming next. She rolled again, taking cover beneath a large cage and the hammer's wielder swore in frustration, shoving himself against the cage. He was bulky, she'd give him that. Taking a few prescious seconds for the throbbing in her arm to subside, she prepared to roll out from under the cage only for it to move, leaving her scurrying to her feet, dodging impressive yet deadly one handed swings of the war hammer, each hit almost crushing her. She scrambled away, dodging and weaving to remain out of his reach. She had to break through his defenses, preferably before the pit wolves were no longer hassling fleeing patrons and she'd have to deal with the other guards. The war hammer swung again, interrupting her thought process. She threw herself with rather reckless abandon into a trio of barrels, knocking them over, somehow able to hear the unmistakeable sound of the war hammer as it hit the hard iron of a lock. Zadara next heard a roar and the scream of a male as he was clearly attacked by something large, fierce and pissed off. Untangling herself from the disturbed barrels, Zadara peered out, half prepared for a fight. Only to realize that the large creature steadily approaching her with its jowls bloodied was Ashanti. She instantly recognized the large lioness despite having not seen her since Markarth. That large head tilted, nostrils flaring just a bit as she scented the air.  
“Hey there, pretty girl,” Zadara said, offering her hand to the lioness, unsure what else to do. “Remember me?”  
Ashanti's lips pulled back, revealing her blood stained teeth, a warning growl erupting from her and Zadara pulled back instantly, instead reaching for the bag she'd tucked in her newly acquired armor, tossing it to the lioness, relieved when the leather gave way to the meat inside, cooked enough that it wouldn't bleed down her back. Ashanti savagely tore into it, contentedly tearing chunks with speed, evidence that she had been starved.  
“Plenty more where that comes from. We just have to find Falin,” Zadara said.  
She took the fact that the lioness's ears flickered as a good sign, slowly leaving the barrel mess that had presented some safety, mindful that the beast she approached was watching her as intently as she was watching Ashanti, those amber eyes tracking her hand as Zadara touched the matted tawny coat, smoothing her hand over the lioness's back, checking for injuries.  
“Trust me,” she whispered, looking deep into those eyes.  
The sheer amount of eye contact made her think she had somehow gotten through to the lioness, at least until she surged forward and Zadara panicked, surprised as Ashanti crashed into her legs, undermining her footing. Falling, she reached out for something to right herself and Ashanti was just there, catching Zadara skillfully on her back and darting through the pit opening, surprisingly fast and lithe for her size. As they essentially fled the pit, Zadara could see that the guards had finished off the wolves and evacuated the patrons, no doubt heading in to handle her. The implication of their intentions made escaping on their perceived prize all the more sweeter.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bishop is the property first and foremost of Bioware with subcredit going to Mara of the Skyrim Romance Mod, consider this covering all bases.

It was a pain unknown yet it allowed itself to be forced, to bow, to curl tight around itself. It was motivation to keep going, keep moving. After all, Vittoria, the Emperor's cousin, had been killed. The message was obvious. The Thalmor could sit in their tower, sipping tea or whatever they did with “honored guests”, a guest who remained anonymous but obviously knew something of this plot she had warned against. For all the good it did. It was akin to speaking to a brick wall, dealing with those elves. But the frustration of being turned away, well, it gave him an focal point for his anger. Because if he didn't have anger, he'd only have grief. Grief meant he'd fall apart. He barely held it together as it was, simple glimpses of that elven halfling tearing him apart again and again. Falin had not made herself scarce enough, even recovering. She was boisterous and aggressive and he rolled his eyes just thinking of the news that she had been jailed for assaulting some poor fool who disparaged his son. Too much like the old days. That was why it hurt. When his son had been a scrawny little thing, declaring he'd be a guard or better. When his peers, who already carried bulk compared to him, had shoved him around, mocking him. Only to be flung to their rears. It had been a long history of the two of them making mischief but standing by one another.  
“I thought you two would marry.”  
His confession hung in the air, met by silence. Out of shock? Whether by what he'd said or that he had noticed her presence when she'd been rather silent.  
“I'm not the marrying type, Commander.”  
He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. Slumped really. His energy, for the moment, was gone.  
“I haven't heard anything about you terrorizing the citizens,” he remarked.  
“This is the Dark Brotherhood,” she chose to press. “You and I both know it.”  
He said nothing, gazing at her tiredly. She looked akin to how he felt, how she must have felt. There was a dimness in those green eyes, the mischief gone out of them. The vibrancy replaced with a subtle red tint that revealed she had been crying.  
“I hated the though, you know? Your family was so complicated. I was certain attaching himself to you would only hurt Gaius,” Maro continued.  
“I need you to focus!” Falin insisted.  
“And then, of course, there's you.”  
Maro was mostly talking to himself.  
“The bastard's little girl with slave tattoos. Maybe if you'd laid low, like your sister, it would have been better. Or even if your wild years had ended. But you're still crazy, still running off half cocked, spewing nonsense.”  
He narrowed his gaze and he pulled forth anger, pushing away all the memories that she summoned because they strengthened the ache. He wanted no part of that pain, not anymore.  
“You got my son killed,” he declared. “He would have been fine. But he believed you. He looked into your crazy claims because he couldn't bring himself to dismiss you. And this time he should have.”  
“You are saying that to hurt me,” Falin declared.  
“I'm saying it because it is true!” Maro snarled. “You cause more harm then good in your mad dashes for attention. Your sister will never walk again and my son is dead! What will it take for you to realize that you destroy that which you touch?”  
He felt it then. The subtle feel of the air around him seeming to compress and then the sound of falling weaponry revealed her use of force magic. He dared not look away, challenging her to use her magic on him rather than the room around him. She stared at him instead, chest heaving, barely holding in her rage.  
“I will find the Dark Brotherhood,” she declared. “I will stop them from killing my grandfather and I will avenge Gaius. Without your help!”  
Maro gave her a sneer, unable to believe.  
“You won't,” he said, assured. “You'll fail. Just like everything else you have ever tried. I can only hope  
it costs you more than whatever poor fool helps you.”

 

She had fled, ultimately. With so many scandals falling on the cobblestones of Solitude, there was little room for any more. Hence her departure as soon as whatever had tipped the arrow that hit her had worn off. She was glad to be rid of the city, something that never rang true. But the city was abuzz with rumors and each was a lie. She had wanted to scream, waking to news that Gaius could be a betrayer. Although finding out he was dead hurt more. It was an indescribable feeling, knowing someone who had so easily tempered her and thus been a positive presence in her life had died. If she thought too long on him, her mind flashed to his calming presence, spending evenings sprawled on muddy bank or hot days spent dancing around mud crabs that would pinch them, and throwing mud at Imperial guards on horseback until they'd give chase. They were awful children but their desire to out-mischief the other had been their connection. And now, Gaius was dead. There was an emptiness to her, one filling steadily with a need for vengeance and an urge to prove herself.. She was very glad Bishop had taken the reins because she could not concentrate on the road ahead. All she flashed to was Cicero, the conniving jester. Her initial reaction was disgust and a loathing directed at herself for so easily falling into bed with him. But of course, then came the reminder that he had remained. It was such a small thing but she could not remember past that she had woken up next to. Many times, she'd awaken to an empty bed. Sometimes an impatient servant eager to usher her out of the house. Through the servant's entrance of course. Perish the thought of her walking out the receiving doors, rumpled from a night of debauchery. She'd spent much of her time in the Imperial City as a trophy for her lovers. It was not hard to see why Maro had dismissed her. But Gaius had encouraged her to Riften, to Maven Black Briar. She, sadly, had never made it, compliments of Vittoria. Now, she had to make up for lost time, thus cutting corners and taking shortcuts when she'd usually take her time. The Brotherhood had struck far too close to home for her usual methods.  
“So, what's this place?” Bishop asked.  
He clearly had taken note of the robed mages watching them approach, young enough for her to guess that these were Lilith's students.  
“Goldenglow Estate,” Falin replied. “You want to see a man about thieves, you go to the Thieves Guild.”  
“Which doesn't exist,” Bishop was quick to dismiss.  
Falin smirked.  
“Believe what you will.”  
Her mood soured a bit, spotting the familiar dark robes of a Justicar. He stepped forward, smirking at her, in that smug bastard way the Thalmor all seemed to have perfect. And while Falin made it a point to pester the tyrants whenever the chance arose, now she held up her hands in front of her, splayed out so he could clearly see them, making it clear that he'd either stay out of her face or he'd find himself tossed aside like a rag doll. She was not able to test her ability as a deterrent, her mood greatly lifted by the lithe rogue that brushed past the Thalmor as if he wasn't there. Not particularly fond of thieves, Falin was fond of this one, throwing her arms around Brynjolf as soon as he was close enough. Once her grip was secure, she went dead weight, the transition surprising him only for the moment as he adjusted, clearly not at all surprised as Falin wrapped her legs around his waist.  
“I missed you too, Falin,” Brynjolf chuckled.  
“I am very tired and mildly depressed,” she mumbled into his shoulder.  
“I heard,” he replied. “Nobles don't get murdered at their own wedding without it circling back to us.”  
“I forget you have contacts in every city,” Falin admitted, leaning back and studying his face.  
“Lot of good its done me,” he said, rather bitterly.  
“Hey! Think of it as a grand ol' game of hide and seek,” Falin insisted.  
Brynjolf laughed at that, though the sound was as bitter as she felt.  
“Let's go drink,” he decided. “I hear its great for pain, lass.”  
Falin pouted a bit.  
“If you haven't been drinking and brooding this entire time, what have you been doing?”  
Brynjolf nodded Bishop's way, indicating that he wanted the man to follow as he carried Falin towards the estate.  
“I've got certain interests,” he said, clearly being dodgy. “Then of course there's running this estate. And hunting down Mercer.”  
“I'm sure Lilith has assigned you some work as well,” Falin guessed. “She seemed deeply entangled in something when I saw her in Solitude.”  
“If that was the case, whatever task Lilith assigned me would be between Lilith and I, now wouldn't it lass?”  
“I love it when you call me lass,” Falin confessed. “It makes me feel all tingly in places.”  
Brynjolf fixed her with a look, a mix between humor and advised caution. One Falin heeded at least, sliding her way out of Brynjolf's grip as soon as they were inside.  
“Now, I know you didn't come here to flirt with me,” Brynjolf declared.  
He settled into a chair, inviting them to the two across from him, the small entryway table cluttered. Falin opted to stand.  
“Very well, since you're being so point blank. I need a word with Maven Black-Briar,”she admitted.  
“Can't help you there,” was the thief's simple reply.  
Falin made a face at him and he smirked back her way.  
“Falin, you have a unique way of offending the upper crust,” he reminded her. “And we need to stay on Maven's good side.”  
“Wouldn't want to put a stop to thieves,” Falin snipped.  
“I meant the mages,” Brynjolf corrected her. “Who have nowhere to go and not even enough coin to go home.”  
Falin pouted but saw his point.  
“Assassins and thieves run in the same circles, don't they?”  
It was Bishop's first words since they'd arrived and he crossed his arms to make his point, looking down at Brynjolf with his usual suspicion.  
“Not often,” Brynjolf admitted. “But we've moved goods for them.”  
His answer was noticeably dodgy and vague.  
“So, you know where they are now then?” Falin insisted, excited.  
“I don't actually,” was the theif's response.  
“Purposefully?” Bishop asked.  
“Brynjolf,” Falin urged. “Please.”  
Brynjolf sighed, glancing over his shoulder. Finally, he reached into his armor, rooting in what was an obvious hidden pocket, producing an ornate amulet. Falin's eyes went wide, realization hitting her.  
“That's...”  
Her fingers trembled as she reached out, grabbing hold and bringing it closer, as if she needed to do more than just see it.  
“This is Motierre's Amulet!” she declared.  
“It was given to the Brotherhood,” Brynjolf informed her.  
He held out his hand, indicating he wanted it back.  
“And in turn to us to fence it. Which we will be doing.”  
“They're trying to assassinate the Emperor!” Falin hissed.  
“At the end of the day, someone always is,” he said back. “I'm running a guild of thieves, not saints.At the end of the day, they still need to eat.”  
“I don't much care for thieves either,” Falin pointed out darkly, her gaze shadowing.  
He met her gaze, not at all phased.  
“About three years ago, the jarl ruled the orphanage nonessential. Why pay and feed kids when there are paying citizens to cater to?” he asked.  
Brynjolf sat back.  
“Surprisingly it was Vex who decided something needed to be done,” he said. “The rest of us followed her lead.”  
“And?” Falin demanded.  
“He means to say that for all the bad they do, they're doing some good,” Bishop chimed in.  
Falin gritted her teeth and stood, the amulet still in hand.  
“I'm taking this,” she informed him. “Find an appraiser and your assassins will have their payment. Lot of good it will do them, when I separate their heads from their shoulders though.”  
With that, she turned on her heel and stomped away.

 

Intruders. Invaders. Enemies to her peace. She crept along, comforted by the hounds at her back. They wheezed and panted, eager whines drifting from them every so often. Rarely did dinner find them and the four people that had wandered in were tantilizing. She was not so blind. She could feel the vampirism and it had to mean her time had come! She was excited too. But fearful. Creeping ever closer to her prey as she did, she caught the fleetingest look at faces. She would need the element of surprise. They were very effective in killing Master's gargoyles and even the untrained hounds had fallen in their haste to fill their bellies. They could only gnaw on the worn bones of past victims for so long. And it had been so long since the Master had been back. Of course, this was not taking into account the hounds that had turned on each other, ripping apart the flesh of their brethren as they broke their fast. Now, however, a fresh meal was present. Even her own throat burned in anticipation at freshly spilled blood. There were, however, pressing concerns. Namely the fact that the trespassers were drawing closer to the room. She knew little of what laid behind the trap door. What she did know is that it was forbidden. Master had stepped in, confident and assured that he would find something, and had promptly retreated. He had looked shaken, as if he was about to unravel. And had never stepped foot back in the room after that, leaving it in the hands of the strange woman who had aligned herself with him. It was that woman who had taken Master away. Thinking this, she held out a hand, stopping her faithful hounds. Confident in their obedience, she felt along the wall, finding foot and hand holds that would bring her closer to her goal. Scaling the wall, she crouched, barely disturbing the darkness there. She had to wait, had to rely on the last shreds of patience that she had. A true test.

 

Easy. Picking locks that was. When given enough time and enough training. He eased the door open and crept out. He was weak, months of captivity not doing much to benefit his condition. Stumbling, he made it out of his cage and to the bed in the room. He had no time to sprawl out and rest as he so desperately wanted but he had little chance of making it out unless he ignored the initial urge. He stumbled to the wooden trunk at the end of the bed, fishing in its depths, knowing he would find extra gear. And sure enough, he pulled out swaths of black clothes, stumbling into them, lucky he was able to manage even that. The final piece was a cowl, one that he coiled skillfully around his head before stepping out of the room. The Sanctuary was silent, certainly quieter than he expected. He passed through undetected, peeking in to each room he passed, just to be safe. By scent alone, he could find the exit. But he did a head count, smirking ever so slightly. His retaliation would be swift and violent, if he had his way. As he made his way near effortlessly through the Sanctuary, alerting no one and able even to see the faintest hint of light. The ghost taste of blood was already encasing his tongue, his hunger, which he had been able to suppress during his captivity, was steadily awakening. He couldn't wait to break this fast forced upon him. He'd head home, he decided. Replenish himself there and regain his strength before setting out once more. He had so much left to do, another Scroll to find and then there was the matter of regaining control of his mother and sister once more. The air outside the Sanctuary was ice cold, stinging his nose and throat as he breathed it in deeply, relishing the sweet taste of it. Skyrim's biting cold was so much better than he remembered. No doubt a result of his imprisonment. He got two steps out, his boots crunching on a fresh blanket of snow.  
“You must be Dyre.”  
He paused, his mood instantly spoiled. He was in no condition to fight. Turning, his red gaze fell on a small child. When she knew his attention was on her, her lips twisted into a very sinister grin.  
“Hekth always knew you'd gotten too clever. Of course, because I told her you don't end up in Harkon's good graces unless you are an impressive manipulator,” she bragged.  
“A child, then?” Dyre chuckled. “Did mother not learn anything about children and assassins?”  
“ It helps that I am an assassin, I'm sure,” was the flippant reply.  
The familiar glint to her eyes and the dangerous point to her teeth revealed that she wasn't just an assassin. Dyre yanked off his cowl.  
“It is always nice to meet a fellow vampire,” he said.  
“Oh cut the chatter,” she insisted, waving away his pleasantries.  
Her eyes filled with a distinct bloodlust he knew well.  
“I suppose you are meant to be my warden then,” he guessed. “In mother's absence.”  
“Silly boy,” she laughed. “I'm not a warden. I'm your executioner.”

 

Once upon a time, this room had been home. Now it practically echoed the silence. If she closed her eyes, she could still smell her mother stirring together potions. Some had reeked. Others had been a sickeningly sweet mixture. Those tended to be poisons. She moved forward in the room, trailing her eyes along the cobwebbed ingredients. The room was untouched and something about that drove her to relax. Untouched. That meant that for all that he had corrupted, her father had not reached here.  
“This is the lab,” she announced, as if it needed to be said.  
It didn't escape her notice, the way Hekth remained in place by the passage they'd come in through, her red gaze directed into the abyss that was the rest of the tower. But her attention was more drawn to Lilith who had crouched beside the strange tiles on the floor, one hand on them that glowed brightly from whatever spell she had cast.  
“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning over the railing.  
“Magic leaves a trace,” Lilith replied. “Older magic is much stronger. Longer lasting. It tends to settle and remain.”  
She snapped her fingers, the bright glow vanishing.  
“Primordial magic was used here,” she announced.  
Lilith rose, scanning the room.  
“There was a portal,” she declared. “ To where, I don't know. But these stones are good for stabilizing primordial magic.”  
“Stabilizing?” Serana repeated.  
“There's a reason that very few mages dabble in primordial magic,” Lilith explained. “Its very unstable and that makes it dangerous. I stopped using it for awhile to discourage any students from using it.”  
“Did you use these rocks?” Serana inquired, indicating the ones in question.  
“No,” Lilith replied. “I suppose you could say primordial magic is my birthright.”  
“So you can open this portal.”  
It was Miraak's turn to observe the rocks, his mismatched eyes squinted as if he saw something they didn't.  
“This portal?” Lilith repeated.  
Her eyes widened.  
“The portal didn't close all the way,” she realized. “Opening it unassisted could be dangerous though.”  
She looked at Serana.  
“Any idea where your mother would go for safety?”  
“None,” Serana admitted. “But she kept a journal. It may be somewhere around here.”  
Her words were followed by a loud crash and a snarled yip, the latter part of that noise familiar.  
“Hounds” Miraak announced.  
“I suspected we hadn't seen the last of them,” Hekth remarked. “That bone pit was much too big for the pitiful numbers we were dealing with.”  
“They'll catch our scent quick,” Miraak surmised. “If we're relying on a portal, we better move soon.”  
“Look for a journal then,” Lilith instructed. “Its our best option.”

 

She turned the amulet over in her hands, stomping along the bank. It was a noose around Motierre's neck, one she could've used so much early. It could've spurred Maro to action so much sooner, probably saved Gaius an early death. For someone so modestly wealthy as Motierre, the amulet was certainly his most valuable possession. Why had she not thought of it earlier, why had she not wondered how he was paying for such a high stakes contract? She had been more invested in her grandfather's life and getting Ashanti back yet she had accomplished nothing of the sort. Her companion was still imprisoned and she was far, far away from anywhere the Emperor would ever be. She slumped against a mangled tree, staring out across the wide lake. From where she had traipsed, she could stare at Goldenglow Estate but her mind was anywhere else but her present location.  
“Audarra, I wish you were here,” she whispered, setting the words off into the ether.  
It was calming, really. Her sister was just that. The calm in a storm that was their family. Their mother was a bundle of nerves, never at peace when the sun sank. Their father had his own anxieties, his own troubles and often put them aside to settle their mother. Falin, of course, was as made as they came and as wild as a storm fueled sea. But Audarra was a rock. She would never walk again, her life four walls unless someone provided the legs she needed, but madness had failed to grasp her. She would've known how to root out Motierre. Audarra would have remembered the amulet and the waning Motierre fortune, she would've convinced Maro. Heck, Audarra's flawless reputation for being levelheaded and obedient would've convinced Maro.  
“We all wish we could be different.”  
The voice echoed in her head, loud and surprising, but she had also expected it. The realization was odd but made sense at the same time. And if that wasn't madness, she didn't know what was.  
“Darrus,” she greeted him, looking around though she had the feeling he wouldn't physically manifest.  
“How much easier, then, would it be, if you had avoided the Septim madness? Where was it born? When was it born?” he asked, all the questions rhetorical.  
He was basically waxing poetically and she silently listened.  
“It is subtle, the madness, the effect it has on its lives. You deem yourself lost but are you?”  
“Most would see me as a madwoman,” Falin admitted. “Others an oversexed Bosmer, as if its too much effort to remember the Imperial in me. As if the chaotic thoughts in my mind are due to my race. They dismiss me before I even give them a reason. They are right to.”  
“We are all mad,” Darrus declared. “It is a fact of life. Those that dismiss it only delay the inevitable.”  
“I can't do this,” Falin announced.  
She hung her head, her eyes centering on the ground.  
“There are too many moving pieces, too many things to do. I can't make a mistake!”  
“So don't,” was the response, the voice already fading away.  
A good thing, as the following silence allowed her to hear the snap of a stick, a sign she wasn't alone. She whipped her head around, her eyes widening as they landed and her mouth dropping open in surprise.  
“You-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, to my fans, to anyone who actually reads this all the way through because they are hoping for a tid bit to the next chapter, first and foremost. Thank you. Thank you for your open mind and continued support. I know chapter breaks span eternity and I will work on that. Views, comments and the occassional review/message I get keep me going because despite the haters, Falin has more fans. so, you know, positivity! Second, as you have put up with this long diatribe, this is your tid bit: We are nearing the end of The Emperor's Gem. I won't declare how many chapters because, y'know, I can really drag out an end lol. Something I want to address is Bishop. When Lilithianna's creator and I were plotting our characters' story, Bishop was a key player. When I found out he was sort of stolen, I backed off right quick. So, abrupt it may be but Bishop will be bowing out next chapter, that is the only thing I can say for sure. As such, Bishop's removal from the timeline means that the short story I wrote titled Reunion (in which Syra comes back) is no longer canon. I'll leave it up, as I really REALLY enjoy writing side stories and sweet nothings about couples I enjoy but Syra's return will be different and I wan't y'all to be prepared. Much love, much appreciation. Thanks for reading everybody. Have a good one.


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